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POEMS OF TENNYSON 




Cy.lonrz .-cu 






COPYRIGHT, 1903, 1920, BY HENRY VAN DYKE 






MAR -8 1920 



THE 8CRIBNER PRESS 



3)CIA559986 






PREFACE 



^ Hearing and reading of late many hard and 

- disdainful words regarding the so-called Victorian 

^ Age, — a remote period of English history running 

^ from about 1837 to 1900,-1 fell to thinking 

^ whether some compensations and consolations 

might not have been bestowed on that derided era. 
Something certainly was due to make up for its 
apparent deficiencies in the matter of architecture, 
domestic furniture, music, painting, feminine cos- 
tume, the wild pleasures of revolution, and in par- 
ticular for its complete deprivation of the uplifting 
and entrancing influence of moving-pictures. It 
is difficult to conceive that either Evolution, which 
is supposedly continuous, or Providence, which is 
presumably not altogether unjust, could have made 
such a break as to leave a considerable interval of 
human life without inheritance from the past or 
promise for the future, an inane epoch, devoid 
alike of real emotion and genuine art, the joy of 
living and the incentives of a noble discontent. 

But indeed such a lamentable conclusion is not 
necessary. Looking back from our present elevated 
position, and endeavoring for a moment to free 
our eyes from the dazzling New-Era-Consciousness 
which pervades the air, we can see that while the 
fashions have changed, the essential elements and 
[viii 



\ 



PREFACE 

processes of real human life in the Victorian Age 
were not altogether different and disconnected from 
those of the George-the-Fifthian Age. The dis- 
coveries made then are applied now. The problems 
posed then are being worked over now. There has 
been no fundamental alteration in human nature 
since the Spanish- American War, the Boer War, or 
even since the late Kaiser War. Conservatives and 
radicals, fools and wise men, fanatics and fakirs, 
contend now as then for the popular favor and 
following. Even automobiles and airplanes have 
failed to transport us immediately to the Land of 
Happy Freedom. The journey to that goal must 
still be made on foot. And the real helps and com- 
forts of the journey are still good friends, good 
books, good hopes, and the inward spirit of good 
will. Even so was it in the Victorian Age. 

Whatever may have been its defects in furniture, 
legislation, and so on, it was rich in one consola- 
tion, — good books, the reading of which would 
make even a plush arm-chair under an Argand 
lamp, or a wooden rocker beside a stearine candle, 
quite tolerable. In England and in America dur- 
ing that epoch there were authors who knew how 
to use good English to good purpose, for the plea- 
sure and the profit of mankind. Dickens and 
Thackeray, Hawthorne and Poe, Stevenson and 
Kipling, Carlyle, Emerson and Ruskin, Tennyson 
[ viii ] 



PREFACE 

and Browning were all Victorians, of one style or 
another. What they wrote was excellent when it 
was new; and it remains excellent today. It is still 
capable of giving joy and light to readers who come 
to it with an open mind, immune to the tetanus 
of literary theory. 

Far be it from us to refuse due attention and 
wonder to "the New Poetry," "the New Era," and 
all the other Newnesses. But while we inquire re- 
spectfully just how new a thing must be in order 
to be worthy of admiration, and while we wait pa- 
tiently for these novelties to fulfil their promises, 
may we not keep with us some things a little less 
new, to serve as standards, and to cheer us in our 
waiting ? May we not refresh the fire on our hearth 
with a few logs of well-seasoned wood? Must we 
accept the dictum of a Chicago poet who says, in 
his inimitably musical style, 

"/ tell you the past is a bucket of ashes" ? 

Meditating thus, it seemed to me that now might 
be a good tirne to commend anew to thoughtful 
readers, who like to find delight as well as illumina- 
tion in their reading, the poetry of a great man who 
was one of the chief writers of the Victorian Age, — 
Tennyson. He may have been over-praised fifty 
years ago; but he is certainly undervalued, in 
some quarters, at this time. It is a pity to have 
[ix] 



PREFACE 

a path so fair, and affording such wide and beauti- 
ful prospects, neglected and forsaken for the trot- 
toir of fashion. It would add to the sum of general 
happiness, it might even clarify the popular idea 
of the real nature and values of poetic art, if the 
poetry of Tennyson were more widely read and 
better understood. 

With this thought in mind I have brought to- 
gether the results of more than thirty years' read- 
ing and study of Tennyson and put them, with 
some additions, into their final form in a pair of 
companion volumes. 

I. The first contains a General Introduction on 
the life and art of Tennyson, and a group of 
his Select Poems, so arranged as to show the 
wonderful variety of his work, the steady un- 
folding of his powers, and the chief qualities of his 
poetry. 

Books of poetic selections have their disadvan- 
tages. They generally include some pieces which 
the reader personally does not care for and omit 
others of which he is very fond. I confess that they 
are no substitute for the "complete works" of an 
author. 

On the other hand, there is a certain gain in pre- 
senting in a small compass a body of the best things 
that a poet has done, disengaged and set apart from 
the mass of his productions. It simplifies the view 



PREFACE 

and makes it easier to feel the distinctive qualities 
of his work. To this end I hope the present selection 
may serve. It has a hundred and thirty-six selec- 
tions from all the fields of Tennyson's poetry, ex- 
cept the dramas, from which it was impossible to 
detach representative scenes. But some of the inci- 
dental lyrics are given. 

II. The second volume contains a series of 
"Studies in Tennyson," written at different times, 
and now revised, enlarged, and reprinted. The 
doing of this revision has been a curious experience. 
I find that the youthful enthusiasm of my first pas- 
sion for his work has cooled a little, so that some 
of the expressions of it need to be moderated. But 
my conviction of his lofty rank as a poet has not 
changed except to grow stronger. And the impres- 
sion of his personality, so large and noble, so 
manly, strong, and free, so vigorously alive to all 
the manifold aspects of human life, so firm in his 
loyalties and liberal in his sympathies, so great a 
lover of nature, humanity, and God, — that vivid 
impression has not faded but deepened, since last 
I saw him in those late summer days at Aldworth, 
twenty-seven years ago. 

In the long interval what vast mutations have 
passed upon the surface of earthly things ! 

**What hideous warfare hath been waged, 
What kingdoms overthrown /" 

[xi] 



PREFACE 

But the immortal realm in which Tennyson was 
a servant and a master has not been shaken. Liv- 
ing now, he would be singing as he sang then, — ■ 
true to nature, true to art, and true to the highest 
faith that is in man. 

Real poetry has no date. It springs from a mo- 
ment of vivid experience in time. But it passes, in 
great things or in little things, into that imperish- 
able region where everything has its meaning to 
the imagination and the heart. 

Tennyson was a great man of the Victorian Age. 
His poetry is one of the enduring treasures of Eng- 
lish literature. 

Henry van Dyke. 

AVALON, Oct. 1, 1919. 



[xii] 



CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION page 
I. tennyson''s place in the nineteenth 

CENTURY xix 

II. AN OUTLINE OF TENNYSON^'s LIFE XXV 

III. TENNYS0N'*S use OF HIS SOURCES xliii 

IV. Tennyson's revision of his text Ixiii 

V. THE CLASSIFICATION OF TENNYSON'^S POEMS Ixxix 
VI. THE QUALITIES OF TENNYSON's POETRY Ixxxvi 

POEMS 

I. MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Claribel 3 

Song 4 

The Throstle 5 

Far — Far — Away & 

"Move eastward, happy earth" 6 

The Snowdrop 7 

A Farewell 7 
Songs from The Princess 

The Little Grave 8 

"Sweet and low" 8 

The Bugle Song 9 

"Tears, idle tears" 10 

The Swallow's Message 11 

The Battle 12 

"Sweet, my child, I live for thee" 12 

"Ask me no more" 13 



[ xiii 



IL 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


Songs from Other Poems 




The Song of the Brook 


13 


Cradle-Song 


15 


Mother-Song 


16 


Enid's Song 


17 


Vivien's Song 


17 


Elaine's Song 


18 


Milking-Song 


18 


The Queen's Song 


19 


Duet of Henry and Rosamund 


20 


Ode to Memory 


21 


The Beggar Maid 


25 


Recollections of the Arabian Nights 


26 


The Daisy 


31 


Early Spring 


35 


The Dying Swan 


38 


The Eagle 


39 


The Oak 


40 


The Sea-Fairies 


40 


The Lotos-Eaters 


42 


Isabel 


49 


Mariana 


50 


A Dream of Fair Women 


53 


Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 


64 


BALLADS, IDYLS, AND CHARACTER-PIECES 


Ballads 




The Lady of Shalott 


69 


The May Queen 


75 


In the Children's Hospital 


85 


The Charge of the Light Brigade 


90 


The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava 


92 


The Revenge 


95 



[ xiv ] 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


English Idyls 




The Gardener's Daughter 


103 


Dora 


112 


Character-Pieces 




CEnone 


119 


Ulysses 


128 


Tithonus 


130 


Lucretius 


133 


St. Agnes' Eve 


142 


Sir Galahad 


144 


Northern Farmer. Old Style 


147 


Northern Farmer. New Style 


151 


Locksley Hall 


156 


Lady Clara Vere de Vere 


169 


Selections from Maud ; a Monodrama 


172 


Rizpah 


188 


SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 




The Princess, Book VII 


197 


Guinevere 


207 


Morte d' Arthur 


230 



IV. PERSONAL AND PHILOSOPHIC POEMS 
Of the Poet and His Art 

The Poet ^43 

The Poet's Song 245 

To 245 

The Palace of Art 246 

MerUn and The Gleam 258 

'Frater Ave atque Vale* 263 

To Virgil 263 

Milton 265 

[xv] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 



Of Patriotism 




**0f old sat Freedom on the heights" 


96Q 


England and America in 1782 


267 


To the Queen 


268 


Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 


«69 


Of the Life of the Spirit 




The Vision of Sin 


«79 


The Ancient Sage 


288 


"Flower in the crannied wall" 


298 


The Higher Pantheism 


298 


WUl 


299 


Wages 


300 


The Deserted House 


301 


"Break, break, break" 


302 


In the Valley of Cauteretz 


302 


Selections from In Memoriam 


303 


Prefatory Poem to my Brother's Sonnets 


337 


Vastness 


339 


Crossing the Bar 


342 



xvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 



INTRODUCTION 

I 

Tennyson's place in the nineteenth century 

" The voice of him the mcister and the sire 
Of one whole age and legion of the lyre, 
Who sang his morning-song when Coleridge still 
Uttered dark oracles from Highgate Hill, 
And with new launched argosies of rhyme 
Gilds and makes brave this sombreing tide of time. 

To him nor tender nor heroic muse 

Did her divine confederacy refuse: 

To all its moods the lyre of life he strung, 

And notes of death fell deathless from his tongue, 

Himself the Merlin of his magic strain. 

He bade old glories break in bloom again; 

And so, exempted from oblivious gloom, 

Through him these days shall fadeless break in 

bloom." WILLIAM WATSON, 1892. 

1 ENNYSON seems to us, at the beginning of the 
Twentieth Century, the most representative poet of 
the English-speaking world in the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury. Indeed it is doubtful whether any other writer 
during the last hundred years has reflected, so clearly 
and so broadly, in verse or prose, the features of that 
composite age. The history of its aspirations and con- 
flicts, its dreams and disappointments, its aesthetic re- 
vivals and scientific discoveries, its questioning spirit 
in religion and its dogmatic spirit in practical affairs, 
[ xix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

its curious learning and social enthusiasms and mili- 
tary reactions, its ethical earnestness, and its ever 
deepening and broadening human sympathy, may be 
read in the poetry of Tennyson. 

Other poets may reflect some particular feature of 
the century more fully, but it is because they reflect 
it more exclusively. Thus Byron stands for the spirit 
of revolt against tyranny, Shelley for the dream of 
universal brotherhood, Keats for the passionate love 
of pure beauty, Matthew Arnold for the sadness of 
parting with ancient faiths, Robert Browning for the 
spirit of scientific curiosity and the restless impulse of 
action, and Rudyard Kipling expresses the last phase 
of the centuiy, the revival of militant imperialism, 
perhaps as well as it can be uttered in verse. 

Wordsworth, indeed, has a more general range, at 
least of meditative sympathy, and his work has there- 
fore a broader significance. But his range of imagi- 
native sympathy, the sphere within which he feels 
intensely and speaks vividly, is limited by his own 
individuality, deep, strong, unyielding, and by his se- 
cluded life among the mountains of Westmoreland. 
When he moves along his own line his work shines 
with a singular and unclouded lustre ; at other times 
his genius fails to penetrate his material with the light 
of poesy. Much of his verse, serious and sincere, repre- 
sents Wordsworth's reflections upon life, rather than 
the reflection of life in Wordsworth's poetry. In the 
metrical art, too, perfect as he is in certain forms, 
such as the sonnet, the simple lyric, the stately ode, 
his mastery is far from wide. In narrative poetry he 
seldom moves with swiftness or certainty; in the use 

[ XX] 



INTRODUCTION 

of dramatic motives to intensify a lyric^ a ballad, an 
idyl, he has little skill. 

But Tennyson, at least in the maturity of his pow- 
ers, has not only a singularly receptive and respon- 
sive mind, open on all sides to impressions from na- 
ture, from books, and from human life around him, 
and an imaginative sympathy, which makes itself 
at home and works dramatically in an extraordinary 
range of characters : he has also a wonderful mastery 
of the technics of the poetic art, which enables him 
to give back in a fitting form of beauty the subject 
which his genius has taken into itself. No other Eng- 
lish poet since the Elizabethan age has used so many 
kinds of verse so well. None other has shown in his 
work a sensitiveness to the movements of his own time 
at once so delicate and so broad. To none other has 
it been given to write with undimmed eye and undi- 
minished strength for so long a period of time, and 
thus to translate into poetry so many of the thoughts 
and feelings of the century in which he lived. 

Whether a temperament so receptive, and an art 
so versatile, as Tennyson's, are characteristic of the 
highest order of genius, is an open question, which 
it is not necessary to decide nor even to discuss here. 
Certainly it would be absurd to maintain that his suc- 
cess in dealing with all subjects and in all forms of 
verse is equal. His dramas, for instance, do not stand 
in the first rank. His two epics. The Princess and 
Idylls of the King, have serious defects, the one in 
structure, the other in substance. 

But, on the other hand, the broad scope of his 
poetic interest and the variety as well as the general 
[ xxi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

felicity of his art, helped to make him the most popu- 
lar poet of his time and race. Tennyson has something 
for everybody. He is easy to read. He has charm. 
Thus he has found a wide audience, and his poetry 
has not only reflected, but powerfully influenced, the 
movements of his age. The poet whose words are 
quoted is a constant, secret guide of sentiment and 
conduct. The man who says a thing first may be more 
original; he who says it best is more potent. The 
characters which Tennyson embodied in his verse be- 
came memorable. The ideals which he expressed in 
music grew more clear and beautiful and familiar to 
the hearts of men, leading them insensibly forward. 
The main current of thought and feeling in the Nine- 
teenth Century, at least among the English-speaking 
peoples, — the slow, steady, onward current of admira- 
tion, desire, hope, aspiration, and endeavour, — follows 
the line which is traced in the poetry of Tennyson. 

Now it is just this broad scope, this rich variety, 
this complex character of Tennyson's work which 
make it representative; and precisely this is what a 
book of selections cannot be expected to show com- 
pletely. For this, one must read all the twenty-six 
volumes which he published, — lyrical poems, ballads, 
English idyls, elegiac poems, war-songs, love-songs, 
dramas, poems of art, classical imitations, dramatic 
monologues, patriotic poems, idylls of chivalry, fairy 
tales, character studies, odes, religious meditations, 
and rhapsodies of faith. 

After such a reading it is natural to ask: How much 
of thiis large body of verse, so representative in its 
total effect, is permanent in its poetic value .-^ How 
[ xxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

much of it, apart from the interest which it has for 
the student of literary history, has a direct and inti- 
mate charm, a charm which is hkely to be lasting, 
for the simple lover of poetry, the reader who turns 
to verse not chiefly for an increase of knowledge, but 
for a gift of pure pleasure and vital power? How much 
of it is characterized by those qualities which distin- 
guish Tennyson at his best, signed, as we may say, 
not merely with his name but with the mark of his 
individuality as an artist, and so entitled to a place 
in his personal contribution to the art of poetry? 

A volume of selections from Tennyson such as I 
have attempted here, must be made along the gen- 
eral lines to which these questions point. I do not 
suppose that it would be possible to make a book of 
this kind which should include all that every admirer 
of Tennyson would like to find in it. There are fine 
passages in the dramas, for instance, which cannot 
well be taken out of their contexts. In choosing a few 
of the connected lyrics which are woven together in 
the symphony of Li Memoriam, one feels a sense of 
regret at the necessity of leaving out other l)nics 
almost as rich in melody and meaning, almost as es- 
sential to the full harmony of the poem. The under- 
lying unity, the epical interest, of Idylls of the King 
cannot be shown by giving two of them, even though 
those two be the strongest in substance and the no- 
blest in style. 

But after all, making due allowance for the neces- 
sary limitations, the inevitable omissions, which every 
educated person understands, I venture to hope that 
the selections in this volume fairly present the mate- 
[ xxiii J 



INTRODUCTION 

rial for a study of Tennyson's method and manner as 
a poet, and an appreciation of that which is best in 
the central body of his poetic work. Here, if I am not 
mistaken, the reader will find those of his poems 
which best endure the test of comparison with classic 
and permanent standards. Here, also, is a book of 
verse which is pervaded, as a whole, by a certain real 
charm of feeling and expression, and which may be 
confidently offered to those gentle persons who like 
to read poetry for its own sake. And here, I am quite 
sure, is a selection from the mass of Tennyson's writ- 
ings which includes at least enough of his most char- 
acteristic work to illustrate the growth of his mind, 
to disclose the development of his art, and to make 
every reader feel the vital and personal qualities 
which distinguish his poetry. 



[ xxiv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

II 

AN OUTLINE OF TENNYSON's LIFE 

'^' Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art. 
Lover of Immortal Love, uplfter of the human heart ! 
Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing if 
thou depart?" in lucem transitus, 1892. 

Parentage and Birth. — Alfred Tennyson was born 
on the 6th of August^ 1809, at Somersby, a Httle 
village in Lincolnshire. He was the fourth child in 
a family of twelve, eight boys and four girls, all of 
whom but two lived to pass the limit of three score 
years and ten. The stock was a strong one, probably 
of Danish origin, but with a mingled strain of Nor- 
man blood through the old family of d'Eyncourt, both 
branches of which, according to Burke's Peerage, are 
represented by the Tennysons. 

The poet's father, the Rev. Dr. George Clayton 
Tennyson, was rector of Somersby and V/ood En- 
derby. His wife, Ehzabeth Fytche, was the daughter 
of the vicar of Louth, a neighbouring town. Dr. Ten- 
nyson was the eldest son of a lawyer of considerable 
wealth, but was disinherited, by some caprice of his 
father, in favour of a younger brother. The rector of 
Somersby was a man of large frame, vigourous mind, 
and variable temper. He had considerable learning, 
of a broad kind, and his scholarship, if not profound, 
was practical, for he taught his sons the best of what 
they knew before they entered the university. A great 
lover of music and architecture, fond of writing verse, 
genial and brilliant in social intercourse, excitable, 

[ XXV ] 



INTRODUCTION 

warm-hearted, stern in discipline, generous in sym- 
pathy, he was a personality of overflowing power; but 
at times he was subject to fits of profound depression 
and gloom, in which the memory of his father's un- 
kindness darkened his mind, and he seemed almost 
to lose himself in bitter and despondent moods. Mrs. 
Tennyson was a gentle, loving, happy character, by 
no means lacking in strength, but excelling in ten- 
derness, ardent in feeling, vivid in imagination, fer- 
vent in faith. It is said that ^^the wicked inhabitants 
of a neighbouring village used to bring their dogs to 
her windows and beat them, in order to be bribed 
to leave off by the gentle lady, or to make advan- 
tageous bargains by selling her the worthless curs." 
Her son Alfred drew her portrait lovingly in the 
poem called "Isabel" (jo. 49) and in the closing lines 
of The Princess (^p. 206). 

Not learfied, save in gracious household ways, 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the gods and men, 
Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seenid to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Sjvayd to her from their orbits as they moved, 
And girdled her with music. 

The poet's reverent and loyal love for his father is 
expressed in the lines "To J. S." Both parents saw 
in their child the promise of genius, and hoped great 
things from him. 

[ xxvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 
The Imitative Impulse. — The boy grew up, if not 
precisely in Milton's ^^ quiet and still air of delightful 
studies/' yet in an atmosphere that was full of stimu- 
lus for the imagination and favourable to the unfold- 
ing of lively powers of thought and feeling. It was 
an obscure hamlet of less than a hundred inhabitants 
where the Tennysons resided, but it was a full home 
in which they lived, — full of children, full of books, 
full of music, full of fanciful games and pastimes, full 
of human interests, full of life. The scenery about 
Somersby is friendly and consoling; gray hills softly 
sloping against the sky; wide-branching elms, trem- 
bling poplars, and drooping ash-trees; rich gardens, 
close-embowered, full of trailing roses, crowned lilies, 
and purple-spiked lavender; long ridges of pasture 
land where the thick-fleeced sheep are herded; clear 
brooks purling over ribbed sand and golden gravel, 
with many a curve and turn; broad horizons, low- 
hung clouds, mellow sunlight ; birds a plenty, flowers 
profuse. All these sweet forms Nature printed on the 
boy's mind. Every summer brought a strong contrast, 
when the family went to spend their holiday in a 
cottage close beside the sea, on the coast of Lincoln- 
shire, among the tussocked ridges of the sand-dunes, 
looking out upon 

The hollow ocean-ridges, roaring into cataracts. 

The boy had an intense passion for the sea, and 
learned to know all its moods and aspects. "Some- 
how," he said, later in life, "water is the element I 
love best of all the four." 

When he was seven years old he was sent to the 
[ xxvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

house of his grandmother at Louth, to attend the 
grammar-school. But it was a hard school with a rough 
master, and the boy hated it. After three years he 
came home to continue his studies under his father. 

His closest comrade in the home was his brother 
Charles, a year older than himself. (^See In Memoriam, 
Ixocix, and "Prefatory Poem to My Brother's Son- 
nets," jd. 337.) The two lads had many tastes in com- 
mon, especially their love of poetry. They read widely, 
and offered the sincerest tribute of admiration to their 
favourite bards. Alfred's first attempt at writing verse 
was made when he was eight years old. He covered 
two sides of a slate wdth lines in praise of flowers, in 
imitation of Thomson, the only poet whom he then 
knew. A little later Pope's Iliad fascinated him, and 
he produced many hundreds of lines in the same style 
and metre. At twelve he took Scott for his model, 
and turned out an epic of six thousand lines. Then 
Byron became his idol. He wrote lyrics full of gloom 
and grief, a romantic drama in blank verse, and imi- 
tations of the Hebrerv Melodies. 

Some of the fruitage of these young labours may 
be seen in the volume entitled Poems by Two Brothers, 
which was published anonymously by Charles and 
Alfred Tennyson, at Louth, in 1827, and republished 
in 1893, with an effort to assign the pieces to their 
respective authors, by the poet's son, the present Lord 
Tennyson. The motto on the title-page of the plump, 
modest little volume is from Martial : Hcec nos novimus 
esse nihil. It is because of this knowledge that the book 
has value as a document in the history of Tennyson's 
development. It shows a receptive mind, a quick, 
[ xxviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

immature fancy, and considerable fluency and variety 
in the use of metre. It marks a distinct stage of his 
growth, — the period when his strongest poetic im- 
pulse was imitative. 

The Esthetic Impulse. — In 1828 Tennyson, with his 
brother Charles, entered Trinity College, Cambridge. 
Almost from the beginning he was a marked man in 
the undergraduate world. His personal appearance was 
striking. Tall, large-limbed, deep-chested ; with a noble 
head and abundance of dark, wavy hair; large, brown 
eyes, dreamy, yet bright; swarthy complexion ("al- 
most like a gypsy," said Mrs. Carlyle); and a profile 
like a face on a Roman coin; he gave the immediate 
impression of rare gifts and power in reserve. "I re- 
member him well," wrote Edward Fitzgerald, "a sort 
of Hyperion." His natural shyness and habits of soli- 
tude kept him from making many acquaintances, but 
his friends were among the best and most brilliant men 
in the University: Richard Monckton Milnes, Richard 
Chenevix Trench, W. H. Brookfield, John Mitchell 
Kemble, James Spedding, Henry Alford, Charles Bul- 
ler, Charles Merivale, W. H. Thompson, and most 
intimate of all, Arthur Henry Hallam. This was an 
extraordinary circle of youths; distinguished for schol- 
arship, wit, eloquence, freedom of thought ; promising 
great things, which most of them achieved. Among 
these men Tennyson's strength of mind and character 
was recognized, but most of all they were proud of 
him as a coming poet. In their college rooms, with an 
applauding audience around him, he would chant in 
his deep, sonorous voice such early poems as "The 
Hesperides," "Oriana," "The Lover's Tale." 
[ xxix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

He did not neglect his studies, the classics, history, 
and the natural sciences; but his general reading meant 
more to him. He was a member of an inner circle called 
the "Apostles/* a society devoted to ^religion and radi- 
calism.' (See In Memoriam, Ixxxvii.) The new spirit, 
represented in literature by Coleridge, Wordsworth, 
Shelley, Keats, took possession of him. He went back 
to the Elizabethan age, to Milton's early poems, as the 
fountain-heads of English lyrical poetry. Not now as 
an imitator, but as a kindred artist, he gave himself 
to the search for beauty, freedom, delicate truth to 
nature, romantic charm. 

His poem of "Timbuctoo," which won the Chan- 
cellor's gold medal in 1829, was only a working-over 
of an earlier poem on "The Battle of Armageddon," 
and he thought little of it. But in 1830 he published 
a slender volume entitled Poems, Chiejly Lyrical, which 
shows the quality of his work in this period when the 
aesthetic impulse was dominant in him. Ten of these 
poems are among the selections in this book. They are 
marked by freshness of fancy, melody of metre, vivid 
descriptive touches, and above all by what Arthur Hal- 
lam, in his thoughtful review of the volume, called "a 
strange earnestness in his worship of beauty." 

In the summer of 1 830, Hallam and Tennyson made 
a journey together to the Pyrenees, to carry some funds 
which had been raised in England to the Spanish in- 
surgents who were fighting for liberty. Tennyson was 
not in sympathy with the conservatism which then, as 
in Wordsworth's day, made Cambridge seem narrow 
and dry and heartless to men of free and ardent spirit. 
In 1831 the illness and death of his father made it 

[ XXX ] 



INTRODUCTION 

necessary for him to leave college and go home to live 
with the family at Somersby, where he remained for 
six years. In 1832 he published his second volmne of 
Poems, dated 1833. 

The tone and quality of this volume are the same 
that we find in its predecessor, but the manner is 
firmer, stronger, more assured. There is also a warmer 
human interest in such poems as "The Miller's Daugh- 
ter" and "The May Queen"; and in "The Palace of 
Art" there is a distinct intimation that the purely 
aesthetic period of his poetic development is nearly at 
an end. Six of these poems are among the selections 
in this book. 

The criticism which these two volumes received, 
outside of the small circle of Tennyson's friends and 
admirers, was severe and scornful. Blackwood's Maga- 
zine called the poet the pet of a Cockney coterie, and 
said that some of his lyrics were "dismal drivel." The 
Quarterly Review sneered at him as ^'^ another and a 
brighter star of that galaxy or milky rvay of poetry, of 
which the lamented Keats was the harbinger." Tenny- 
son felt this contemptuous treatment deeply. It seemed 
to him that the English people would never like his 
work. His aesthetic period closed in gloom and dis- 
couragement. 

The Religious and Personal Impulse. — But far 
heavier than any literary disappointment was the blow 
that fell in 1833 when his dearest friend, Arthur Hal- 
lam, to whom his sister Emilia was promised in mar- 
riage, died suddenly in Vienna. This great loss, com- 
ing to Tennyson at a time when the first joy of youth 
was already overcast by clouds of loneliness and 
[ xxxi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

despondency, was the wind of destiny that drove him 
from the pleasant harbour of dreams out upon the wide, 
strange, uncharted sea of spiritual strife and sorrow, 
— the sea which seems so bitter and so wild, but on 
whose farther shore those who bravely make the voy- 
age find freedom and security and peace and the gen- 
erous joy of a larger, nobler life. The problems of doubt 
and faith which had been worked out with abstract 
arguments and fine theories in the Apostles' society at 
Cambridge, now became personal problems for Tenny- 
son. He must face them and find some answer, if his 
life was to have a deep and enduring harmony in it, 
— a harmony in which the discords of fear and self- 
will and despair would dissolve. The true answer, he 
felt sure, could never be found in selfish isolation. The 
very intensity of his grief purified it as by fire, made 
it more humane, more sympathetic. His conflict with 
'Hhe spectres of the mind" was not for himself alone, 
but for others who must wrestle as he did, with sor- 
row and doubt and death. The deep significance, the 
poignant verity, the visionary mystery of human ex- 
istence in all its varied forms, pressed upon him. Like 
the Lady of Shalott in his own ballad, he turned from 
the lucid mirror of fantasy, the magic web of art, to 
the real world of living joy and grief. But it was not 
a curse, like that which followed her departure from 
her cloistered tower, that came upon the poet, dr^wn 
and driven from the tranquil, shadowy region of ex- 
quisite melodies and beautiful pictures. It was a bless- 
ing : the blessing of clearer, stronger thought, deeper, 
broader feeling, more power to understand the world 
and more energy to move it. 

[ xxxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Tennyson's personal sorrow for the loss of Hallam is 
expressed in the two lyrics, "Breaks break, break " and 
"In the Valley of Cauteretz" (^p. 302), poems which 
should always be read together as the cry of grief and 
the answer of consolation. His long spiritual struggle 
with the questions of despair and hope, of duty and 
destiny, which were brought home to him by the loss 
of his friend, is recorded in In Memoriam. The poem 
was begun at Somersby in 1833 and continued at dif- 
ferent places and times, as the Interwoven lyrics show, 
for nearly sixteen years. Though the greater part of it 
was written by 1842, it was not published until 1850. 
Mr. Gladstone thought it "the richest oblation ever 
offered by the affection of friendship at the tomb of 
the departed." It is that and something more: it is 
the great English classic on the love of immortality 
and the immortality of love. Tennyson said, " It was 
meant to be a kind of Divina Commedia, ending with 
happiness." The central thought of the poem is 

' T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

Wherein it is better now, and why the poet trusts it 
will be better still in the long future, — this is the 
vital question which the poem answers in music. 

But apart from these lyrics of personal grief, and 
this rich, monumental elegy, there are other poems 
of Tennyson, written between 1833 and 1842, which 
show the extraordinary deepening and strengthening 
of his mind during this period of inward crisis. For ten 
years he published no book. Living with his mother and 
sisters at Somersby, at High Beech in Epping Forest, 
[ xxxiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

at Tunbridge Wells, at Boxley near Maidstone ; caring 
for the family, as the eldest son at home, and skilfully 
managing the narrow means on which they had to 
live ; wandering through the country on long walking 
tours; visiting his friends in London now and then; 
falling in love finally and forever with Miss Emily Sell- 
wood, to whom he became engaged in 1836, but whom 
he could not marry yet for want of money; he held 
fast to his vocation, and though he sometimes doubted 
whether the world would give him a hearing, he never 
wavered in his conviction that his mission in life was 
to be a poet. The years of silence were not years of 
indolence. Here is a memorandum of a week's work: 
"Monday, History, German. Tuesday, Chemistry, Ger- 
man. Wednesday, Botany, German. Thursday, Electri- 
city, German. Friday, Animal Physiology, German. Sat- 
urday, Mechanics. Sunday, Theology. Next week, Italian 
in the afternoon. Third ?veek, Greek. Evenings, Poetry." 
Hundreds of lines were composed and never written ; 
hundreds more were written and burned. So far from 
being "an artist long before he was a poet," as Mr. 
R. H. Hutton somewhat vacuously says in his essay 
on Tennyson, he toiled terribly to make himself an 
artist, because he knew he was a poet. The results of 
this toil, in the revision of those of his early poems 
which he thought worthy to survive, and in the new 
poems which he was ready to publish, were given to 
the world in the two volumes of 1842. 

The changes in the early poems were all in the di- 
rection of clearness, simplicity, a stronger human in- 
terest. The new poems included "The Vision of Sin," 
"Two Voices," "Ulysses," "Morte d' Arthur," the con- 
[ xxxiv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

elusion of "The May Queen/' "Lady Clara Vere de 
Vere/' "Dora," "The Gardener's Daughter/' "Locks- 
ley Hall/' "St. Agnes' Eve/' "Sir Galahad." With the 
appearance of these two volumes, Tennyson began to 
be a popular poet. But he did not lose his hold upon the 
elect, the ^fit audience, though few.' The Quarterly Re- 
view, The Westminster Review, Dickens, Landor, Rogers, 
Carlyle, Edward Fitzgerald, Aubrey de Vere, and such 
men in England, Hawthorne, Emerson, Lowell, and 
Poe in America, recognized the charm and the power 
of his verse. In 1845 Wordsworth wrote to Henry Reed 
of Philadelphia, " Tennyson is decidedly the first of 
our living poets, and I hope will live to give the world 
still better things." 

Such was the liberating and ennobling effect of the 
deeper personal and spiritual impulse which came into 
his poetry with the experience of sorrow and inward 
conflict. 

The Social Impulse. — From 1842 onward we find the 
poet, now better known to the world, coming into 
wider and closer contact with the general life of men. 
Not that he ever lost the unconventional freedom of 
his dress and manner, the independence of his thought 
and taste, the singular frankness (almost brusquerie) 
of his talk, which was like thinking aloud. He never 
became what is called, oddly enough, a "society man." 
Hie was incapable of roaring gently at afternoon teas 
or literary menageries. He was unM'illing to join him- 
self to any party in politics as Dryden and Swift and 
Addison, or even as Sou they and Wordsworth, had 
done. But he had a sincere love for genuine human 
intercourse, in which real thoughts and feelings are 

[ XXXV ] 



INTRODUCTION 

uttered by real people who have something to say to 
one another; a vivid sense of the humourous aspects 
of life (shown in such poems as the two pictures of 
the "Northern Farmer/' "The Spinster's Sweet- Arts/' 
"The Church- Warden ") ; and a broad interest in the 
vital questions and the popular movements of his time. 
If I am not mistaken, this period when his poetry be- 
gan to make a wider appeal to the people is marked 
by the presence of a new impulse in his work. We may 
call it, for the sake of a name, the social impulse, 
meaning thereby that the poet now looks more often 
at his work in its relation to the general current of 
human affairs and turns to themes which have a place 
in public attention. 

There was also at this time an attempt on Tenny- 
son's part to engage in business, which turned out to 
be a disastrous mistake. He was induced to go into an 
enterprise for the carving of wood by machinery. Into 
this he put all his capital ; and some of the small pat- 
rimony of his brothers and sisters was embarked in 
the same doubtful craft. In 1 843 the ship went down 
with all its lading, and the Tennysons found them- 
selves on the coast of actual poverty. To add to this 
misfortune, the poet's health gave way completely, 
and he was forced to spend a long time in a water- 
cure establishment, under treatment for hypochondria. 

In 1846 the grant of a pension of .£200 from the 
Civil List, on the recommendation of Sir Robert Peel, 
cordially approved by the Queen, relieved the pres- 
sure of pecuniary need under which Tennyson had 
been left by the failure of his venture in wood. In 1847 
he published, perhaps in answer to the demand for a 
[ xxxvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

longer and more sustained poem. The Princess; A 
Medley. It is an epic, complete enough in structure, 
but in substance half serious and half burlesque. It 
tells the story of a king's daughter who was fired with 
the ambition to emancipate, (and even to separate,) 
her sex from man, by founding a woman's college ex- 
traordinary. This design was crossed by the efforts of 
an amourous, chivalrous, faintly ridiculous prince, who 
wooed her under difficulties and won her through the 
pity that overcame her when she saw him wounded 
almost to death by her brother. The central theme of 
the poem is the question of the higher education of 
women, but the style moves so obliquely in its mock 
heroics that it is hard to tell whether the argument 
is for or against. The diction is marked by Tennyson's 
two most frequent faults, over-decoration and indi- 
rectness of utterance. It is much admired by girls at 
boarding-school; but the woman's college of the pre- 
sent day does not regard its academic programme with 
favour. The poem rises at the close to a very sincere 
and splendid eloquence in praise of true womanhood 
{see p. 204). The intercalary songs, which were added 
in 1850, include two or three of Tennyson's best lyrics. 
They shine like jewels in a setting which is not all 
of pure gold. 

In 1850 there were three important events in the 
poet's life: his marriage with Miss Emily Sellwood; 
the publication of the long-laboured In Memoriam; 
and his appointment as Poet-Laureate, to succeed 
Wordsworth, who had just died. The three events 
were closely connected. It was the £300 received in 
advance for In Memoj-iam that provided a financial 
[ xxxvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

basis for the marriage; and it was the profound ad- 
miration of the Prince Consort for this poem that de- 
termined the choice of Tennyson for the Laureateship. 
The marriage was in every sense happy. The poet's 
wife was not only of a nature most tender and beauti- 
ful ; she was also a wise counsellor, a steadfast com- 
rade, as he wrote of her, — 

With a faith as clear as the heights of the June-blue heaven, 

And a fancy as summer-new 

As the green of the bracken amid the glow of the heather. 

Their first home was made at Twickenham, and here 
their oldest and only surviving son, Hallam, was born. 
In 1852 the "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wel- 
lington" was published. It was received with some 
disappointment and unfavourable criticism as the first 
production of the Laureate upon an important public 
event. But later and wiser critics incline to the opinion 
of Robert Louis Stevenson, who thought that the ode 
had "never been surpassed in any tongue or time."^ 
In 1853, increasing returns from his books (about 
£500 a year) made it possible for Tennyson to lease, 
and ultimately to buy, the house and small estate of 
Farringford, near the village of Freshwater on the 
Isle of Wight. It is a low, rambling, unpretentious, 
gray house, tree-embowered, ivy-mantled, in a 

careless-ordered garden, 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

His other home. Aid worth, near the summit of Black 
Down in Sussex, was not built until 1 868. A statelier 

1 Letters of R. L. Stevenson^ Vol. 7, jp. 220. 
[ xxxviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

mansion, though less picturesque, its attraction as a 
summer home Hes in the beauty of its terraced rose- 
garden, the far-reaching view which it commands to 
the south, and the refreshing purity of the upland air 
that breathes around it. 

In 1854 the famous poem on "The Charge of the 
Light Brigade" was published in the hondon Exa7mner. 
It was included, with the Wellington Ode, in the vol- 
ume entitled Maud, and Other Poems, which appeared 
in the following year. Maud grew out of the dramatic 
lyric beginning "O that 'twere possible," in The Tri- 
bute, 1837 (/?. 184). Sir John Simeon said to Tennyson 
that something more was needed to explain the story 
of the lyric. He then unfolded the central idea in a suc- 
cession of lyrics in which the imaginary hero reveals 
himself and the tragedy of his life. The sub-title A 
Monodrama was added in 1 875. When Tennyson read 
the poem to me in 1892, he said "It is dramatic, — 
the story of a man who has a touch of inherited in- 
sanity, morbid and selfish. The poem shows what love 
has done for him. The war is only an episode." This is 
undoubtedly true and just. Yet the vigour of the long 
invective against the corruptions of a selfish peace, 
with which the poem opens, and the enthusiasm of the 
patriotic welcome to the Crimean war, with which it 
closes, show something of the way in which the poet's 
mind was working. This volume together with The 
Princess may be taken as an illustration of the force 
of the social impulse which had now entered into Ten- 
nyson's poetry to cooperate with the aesthetic impulse 
and the religious impulse in the full labours of his 
maturity. 

[ xxxix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Maturity. — Tennyson was now forty-five years old. 
But there still lay before him nearly forty years in 
which he was to bring forth poetry in abundance, a 
rich, varied, unfailing harvest. It is true that before 
this wonderful period of maturity ended there were 
signs of age visible in some of his work, — a slacken- 
ing of vigour, an uncertainty of touch, a tendency 
to overload his verse with teaching, a failure to re- 
move the traces of labour from his art, a lack of cour- 
age and sureness in self-criticism. But it was long be- 
fore these marks of decline were visible, and even 
then, more than any other English poet at an equal 
age, he kept, and in the hours of happy inspiration 
he revealed, the quick emotion, the vivid sensibility, 
the splendid courage of a heart that does not grow 
gray with years. 

In 1859 the first instalment of his most important 
epic. Idylls of the King, appeared. It was followed in 
1869, in 1872, in 1885, by the other parts of the com- 
plete poem. In 1864 E?ioch Arden was published. In 
1875 Queen Mary, the first of the dramas, came out, 
followed by Harold in 1876, and The Cup and The 
Falcon and Becket in 1884. In 1880 Ballads, and Other 
Poems contained some of his best work, such as " Riz- 
pah," "The Revenge," *^*^In the Children's Hospital." 
In 1885 Tiresias, and Other Poems appeared; in 1886 
"Locksley Hall Sixty Years After"; in 1889 Demeter, 
and Other Poems, including "Romney's Remorse," 
"Vastness," "The Progress of Spring," "Merlin and 
The Gleam," "The Oak," "The Throstle," and that 
supreme lyric which Tennyson wished to have printed 
last in every edition of his collected works, — "Cross- 
[xl ] 



INTRODUCTION 

ing the Bar." In 1892 the long list closed with The 
Death of (Enone, Akhars Dream, and Other Poems. 

The life of the man who was producing, after mid- 
dle age, this great body of poetry, was full, rich, and 
happy,— though shadowed by the death of his son 
Lionel on the voyage home from India in 1886. Se- 
cluded, as ever, from the busyness of the world, but 
in no sense separated from its deeper interests, Tenny- 
son studied and wrought, delighting in intercourse 
with his friends and in 

converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind, 
And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Suhtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

In 1883 he accepted from the Queen the honour of 
a peerage (a baronetcy had been offered before and 
refused), and was gazetted in the following year as 
Baron of Aldworth and Farringford. For himself, he 
frankly said, the dignity was one that he did not de- 
sire; but he felt that he could not let his reluctance 
stand m the way of a tribute from the Throne to Lit- 
erature. When he entered the House of Lords he 
took his seat on the cross-benches, showing that he 
did not wish to bmd himself to any party. His first 
vote was cast for the Extension of the Franchise. 

At the close of August, 1892, when I visited him at 
Aldworth, he was already beginning to feel the warn- 
ing touches of pain which preceded his last illness. 
But he was still strong and mighty m spirit, a noble 
shape of manhood, massive, large-browed, his bronzed 
face like the comitenance of an antique seer, his scat- 
[ xli ] 



INTRODUCTION 

tered locks scarcely touched with gray. He was work- 
ing on the final proofs of his last volume and planning 
new poems. At table his talk was free, friendly, full 
of humour and common-sense. In the library he read 
from his poems the things which illustrated the sub- 
jects of which he had been speaking, passages from 
Idylls of the King, some of the songs, the "Northern 
Farmer (New Style)" and, more fully, Maud and the 
Welhngton Ode. His voice was deep, rolling, reso- 
nant. It sank to a note of tenderness, touched with 
prophetic solemnity, as he read the last lines of the 
ode: — 

Speak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
God accept him, Chiist receive him. 

On the 6th of October, 1892, between one and two 
o'clock in the morning, with the splendours of the 
full moon pouring in through the windows of the room 
where his family were watching by his bed, he passed 
into the world of light. His body was laid to rest on 
the 12th of October, in Westminster Abbey, next 
to the grave of Robert Browning, and close beside 
the monument of Chaucer. The mighty multitude of 
mourners assembled at the funeral, — scholars, states- 
men, nobles, veterans of the Light Brigade, poor boys 
of the Gordon Home, — told how widely and deeply 
Tennyson had moved the hearts of all sorts and con- 
ditions of men by his poetry, which was, in effect, 
his life. 



[ xlii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

III 

Tennyson's use of his sources 

Ein Qiddam sagt, " Ich bin von keiner Schulel 
Kein Melster lebt mit de7n ich buhle; 
Audi bin ich weit davon entfernt,' 
Das ich von Todten was geler?it." 
Das heisst, wenn ich ihn recht verstand; 
"Ich bin ein Narr auf eigne Hand." 

GOETHE. 

Emerson was of the same opinion as Goethe in re- 
gard to originahty. Writing of Shakespeare he says, 
'^The greatest genius is the most indebted man," and 
defends the poet's right to take his material wherever 
he can find it. Shakespeare certainly exercised large 
liberty in that respect and did not even trouble him- 
self to look for a defence. Wordsworth wrote, '^Midta 
tnlit fecitque must be the motto of all those who are 
to last." Most of the men whom the world calls great 
in poetry have drawn freely from the sources which 
are open to all, not only in nature, but also in the lit- 
erature of the past, and in the thoughts and feelings 
of men around them, — the inchoate literature of the 
present. 

From all these sources Tennyson took what he 
could make his own, and used it to enrich his verse. 
The gold thus gathered was not all new-mined; some 
of it had passed through other hands ; but it was all 
new-minted, — fused in his imagination and fashioned 
into forms bearing the mark of his own genius. My 
object in the present writing is to give some idea of 

[ xliii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

the way in which he collected his material and the 
method by which he wrought it into poetry. 

(1 .) With nature Tennyson dealt at first hand. A sen- 
sitive, patient^ joyfiil observer, he watched the clouds, 
the waters, the trees, the flowers, the birds, for new 
, disclosures of their beauty, new suggestions of their 
symbolic relation to the life of man. In a letter writ- 
ten to Mr. Dawson of Montreal, commenting upon 
the statement that certain lines of natural description 
in his work were suggested by something in Words- 
worth or Shelley, he demurs, with perceptible warmth, 
and goes on to say: "There was a period in my life 
when, as an artist. Turner for instance, takes rough 
sketches of landskip, etc., in order to work them even- 
tually into some great picture, so I was in the habit 
of chronicling, in four or five words or more, what- 
ever might strike me as picturesque in nature. I never 
put these down, and many and many a line has gone 
away on the north wind, but some remain." Then he 
gives some illustrations, among them, 

A full sea glased with muffled moonlight, 

which was suggested by a night at Torquay, when 
the sky was covered with thin vapour. The line was 
afterwards embodied in The Princess (i, 244). 

But in saying that he never wrote these observa- 
tions down, the poet misremembers his own custom; 
for his note-books contain many luminous fragments 
of recorded vision, like the following : — 

{Bahhicomhe.) Like serpent-coils upon the deep. 
(Bonchurch.) A little salt pool fluttering round a stone 
upon the shore. ("Guinevere," /. 50.) 
[ xliv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

(The river Shannon^ on the rapids.) Ledges of battling 

water. 
(Cornwall.) Sea purple and green like a peacock's neck. 

(See "The Daisy/' p. 32.) 
(Voyage to Norway.) One great wave^ green-shining 

past with all its crests smoking high up beside the 

vessel. 

This last passage is transformed, in "Lancelot and 
Elaine/' into a splendid simile: — 
They couch' d their spears and prick' d their steeds, and thus, 
Their plumes drivn backward by the wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, 
Dow?i on a bark, and overbears the bark. 
And him that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger. 

Tennyson was always fond of travel, and from all 
his journeys he brought back jewels which we find 
embedded here and there in his verse. The echoes in 
"The Bugle Song" (p. 9) were heard on the Lakes 
of Killarney in 1842. The Silver Horns of the Alps 
and the "wreaths of dangling water-smoke," in the 
"small sweet idyl" from The Princess (p. 201), were 
seen at Lauterbrunnen in 1846. In "QEnone" (p. 126), 

My tall dark pines that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-7vhite cataract, 

were sketched in the Pyrenees in 1830. In the first 

edition of the poem he brought in a beautiful species 

[ xlv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

of cicala, with scarlet wings, which he saw on his Span- 
ish journey; though he was conscientious enough to 
add a footnote explaining that "probably nothing of 
the kind exists in Mount Ida." 

It is true that in later editions he let the cicala and 
the note go; but this example will serve to illustrate 
the defect, or at least the danger, which attends Ten- 
nyson's method of working up his pictures. There is 
a temptation to introduce too many details from the 
remembered or recorded "rough sketches/' to crowd 
the canvas, to use bits of description which, however 
beautiful in themselves, do not always add to the 
strength of the picture, and sometimes even give it an 
air of distracting splendour. Ornateness is a fault from 
which Tennyson is not free. In spite of his careful re- 
vision there are still some red-winged cicalas left in 
his verse. There are passages in The Princess, in "Enoch 
Arden," and in some of the Idylls of the King, for ex- 
ample, which are bewildering in their opulence. 

But on the other hand it must be said that very often 
this richness of detail is precisely the effect which he 
wishes to produce, and in certain poems, like " Recol- 
lections of the Arabian Nights" (/). 26), "The Lotos- 
Eaters" {p. 42), and "The Palace of Art" {p. 246), it 
enhances the mystical, dream-like atmosphere in which 
the subject is conceived. If he sometimes puts in too 
many touches, he seldom, if ever, makes use of any 
that is not in harmony with the fundamental tone, the 
colour-key of his picture. Notice the accumulation of 
dark images of loneliness and desertion in "Mariana" 
(p. 50), the cold, gray sadness and weariness of the 
landscape in "The Dying Swan" (p. 3 8), and the serene 
[ xlvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

rapture that clothes the earth with emerald and the 
sea with sapphire in the song of triumph and love in 
Maud, I. xviii Qj. 176). 

There are passages in Tennyson's verse where his 
direct vision of nature is illumined by his memory of 
the things that other poets have written when looking 
at the same scene. Thus "Frater Ave atque Vale" 
{]). 26s) is filled, as it should be, with touches from 
Catullus. But how delicate is the art with which they 
are blended and harmonized, how exquisite the shim- 
mer of the argent-leaved orchards which Tennyson 
adds in the last line, 

Sjveet Catullus s all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio! 

In "The Daisy" (a series of pictures from an Italian 
journey made with his wife in 1851, recalled to the 
poet's memory by finding, between the leaves of a book 
which he was reading in Edinburgh, a daisy plucked 
on the Spliigen Pass), we find Hterary and historical 
reminiscences interwoven with descriptions. At Cogo- 
letto he remembers the young Columbus who was born 
there. On Lake Como, which Virgil praised in the 
Georgics, he recalls 

The rick Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way. 

At Varenna the story of Queen Theodolind comes back 
to him. There are critics who profess to regard such 
allusions and reminiscences as indicating a lack of 
originality in a poet. But why.? Tennyson saw Italy not 
with the eyes of a peasant, but with the enlarged and 
sensitive vision of a scholar. The associations of the 
[ xlvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

past entered into his perception of the spirit of place. 
New colours glowed on 

tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

because he remembered the great things that had been 
done and suffered in the land through which he was 
passing. Is not the landscape of imagination as real as 
the landscape of optics? Must a man be ignorant in 
order to be original? Is true poetry possible only to 
him who looks at nature with a mind as bare as if he 
had never opened a book ? Milton did not think so. 

Tennyson's use of nature as the great source of poetic 
images and figures was for the most part immediate 
and direct; but often his vision was quickened and 
broadened by memories of what the great poets had 
seen and sung. Yet when he borrowed^ here and there, 
a phrase, an epithet, from one of them, it was never 
done blindly or carelessly. He always verified his re- 
ferences to nature. The phrase borrowed is sure to be 
a true one, chosen with a delicate feeling for the best, 
translated with unfailing skill, and enhanced in beauty 
and significance by the setting which he gives to it. 

(2.) For subjects, plots, and illustrations Tennyson 
turned often to the literature of the past. His range 
of reading, even in boyhood, was wide and various, as 
the notes to Poems by Two Brothers show. At the Uni- 
versity he was not only a close student of the Greek 
and Latin classics, but a diligent reader of the English 
poets and philosophers, and a fair Italian scholar. In 
[ xlviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

the years after he left college we find him studying 
Spanish and German. In later life he kept up his stud- 
ies with undiminished ardour. In 1854 he was learning 
Persian^ translating Homer and Virgil to his wife, and 
reading Dante with her. In 1867 he was working over 
Job, The Song of Solomon, and Genesis jin Hebrew. He 
takes the themes of "The Lotos-Eaters" and "The 
Sea-Fairies" from Homer; "The Death of QEnone" 
from Quintus Calaber; "Tiresias" from Euripides; 
"Tithonus" from an Homeric Hymn; "Demeter" and 
"CEnone" from Ovid; "Lucretius" from St. Jerome; 
"St. Simeon Stylites" and "St. Telemachus" from 
Theodoret; "The Cup" from Plutarch; "A Dream of 
Fair Women" from Chaucer; "Mariana" from Shake- 
speare; "The Lover's Tale" and "The Falcon" from 
Boccaccio; "Ulysses" from Dante; "The Revenge" 
from Sir Walter Raleigh; "The Brook" from Goethe; 
"The Voyage of Maeldune" from Joyce's Old Celtic 
Romances; "Akbar's Dream" from the Persian, and 
"Locksley Hall" from the Arabic; "Romney's Re- 
morse" from Hay den's Life of Romney ; "Columbus" 
from Washington Irving. In the Idylls of the King he 
has drawn upon Sir Thomas Malory, the Mahinogion 
of Lady Charlotte Guest, and the old French ro- 
mances. His allusions and references to the Bible are 
many and beautiful. {See The Poetry of Tennyson, 
p. 245, and Appendix.) But he never wrote a whole 
poem upon a scriptural subject, except a couple of 
Byronic imitations in Poems hy Two Brothers. 

To understand his method of using a subject taken 
from literature it may be well to study a few examples. 

The germ of "Ulysses" (jo. 128) is found in the 
[ xlix ] 



INTllODUCTION 

following passage from Dante's Inferno, xxvi, 90-129, 
where, in the eighth Bolgia, Ulysses addresses the 
two poets: — 

" Whe?i I escaped 
From Circe, who heyond a circling year 
Had held me near Caieta hy her charms, 
Ere thus Mneas yet had named the shore; 
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence 
Of my old father, nor return of love, 
That should have crown d Penelope imthjoy, 
Coidd overcome in me the zeal I had 
To explore the world, and search the ways of life. 
Mans evil and his virtue. Forth I saiVd 
Into the deep illimitable main. 
With but one bark, and the small faithful band 
That yet cleaved to me. As Iberia far. 
Far as Marocco, either shore I saiv. 
And the Sardinian and each isle beside 
Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy 7vith age 
Were I and my companions, when we came 
To the strait pass, where Hercules ordaifid 
The boundaries not be overstepp'd by man. 
The walls of Seville to my right I left. 
On the other hand already Ceuta passed. 
'Oh brothers!' I began, 'ivho to the west 
Through perils without number now have reach' d; 
To this the shoi't remaining watch, that yet 
Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof 
Of the unpeojiled rvorld, following the track 
Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang. 
Ye were notfornid to live the life of brutes, 
But virtue to jmrsue a7id knowledge high.' 

[1] 



INTRODUCTION 

With these few words I sharpen d for the voyage 
The mind of my associates, that I then 
Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn 
Our poop we turnd, and for the witless flight 
Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. 
Each star of the other pole night now beheld, 
And ours so low, that from the ocean floor 
It rose not." ^ 
The central motive of the poem is undoubtedly con- 
tained in this passage : the ardent longing for action, 
for experience, for brave adventure, persisting in 
Ulysses to the very end of life. This Tennyson ren- 
ders in his poem with absolute fidelity. But he departs 
from the original in several points. First, he makes 
the poem a dramatic monologue, or character-piece, 
spoken by Ulysses at Ithaca to his old companions. 
Second, he intensifies the dramatic contrast between 
the quiet narrow existence on the island (//. 1-5; 
33-43) and the free, joyous, perilous life for which 
Ulysses longs (//. 11-32). Third, he adds glimpses of 
natural scenery in wonderful harmony with the spirit of 
the poem (//. 2, 44, 45, 54-6 1). Fourth, he brings out 
with extraordinary vividness the feeling which he tells 
us was in his own heart when he wrote the poem, "the 
need of going forward and braving the struggle of life." 
Naturally enough many phrases are used which re- 
call classic writers. "The rainy Hyades" belong to 
Virgil; the rowers "sitting well in order," to Homer. 
To "rust unburnish'd" (/. 23) is an improved echo from 
the speech of Shakespeare's Ulysses in Troilus and 
Cressida. All this adds to the vraisemblance of the poem. 
1 Gary's Translation (1806). 

[li] 



INTRODUCTION 

It is the art by which the poet evokes in our minds 
the associations with which Uterature has surrounded 
the figure of Ulysses, a distinct personaHty^ an endur- 
ing type in the world of imagination. The proof of the 
poet's strength lies in his ability to meet the test of 
comparison between his own work and that classic 
background of which his allusions frankly remind us, 
and in his power to add something new, vivid, and in- 
dividual to the picture which has been painted from 
so many different points of view by the greatest artists. 
This test, it seems to me, Tennyson endures magnifi- 
cently. His Ulysses is not unworthy to rank with the 
wanderer of Homer, of Dante, of Shakespeare. No lines 
of theirs are larger than Tennyson's: — 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro 

Gleams that untravelUd world whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

Nor has any poet embodied ''^the unconquerable mind 
of man" more nobly than in the final lines of this 
poem : — 

Tho much is taken, much abides; and tho 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Mov'd earth and heaven; that 7vhich we are, we are; — 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strotig in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

A poem of very different character is " A Dream of 
Fair Women" (p. 53), written when the aesthetic im- 
pulse was strongest in Tennyson. The suggestion came 
from Chaucer's Legend of Good Women. How full and 

[ lii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

deep and nobly melancholy are the chords with which 
Tennyson enriches the dream-music to which Chaucer's 
poem gives the key-note: — 

In every land 
I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 
The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and ivrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars. 

Then follows a passage full of fresh and exquisite de- 
scriptions of nature, the scenery of his dream. 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dajvn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench' d in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pourd back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

This is Tennyson's own manner, recognizable, imi- 
table,but not easily equalled. Now come the fair women 
who people his visionary forest. Each one speaks to 

[ liii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

him and reveals herself by the lyric disclosure of her 
story. Only in one case — that of Rosamond — does the 
speaker utter her name. In all the others, it is by some 
touch of description made familiar to us by "ancient 
song/' that the figure is recognized. Iphigenia tells 
how she stood before the altar in Aulis, and saw her 
sorrowing father, and the waiting ships, and the crowd 
around her, and the knife which was to shed the vic- 
tim's blood. (Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, i, 85 jf.^ 
Cleopatra recalls the nights of revelry with Mark An- 
tony (Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, Act i, sc. iv), 
his wild love {Act iv, sc. viii), her queenly suicide, robed 
and crowned, with the bite of the aspic on her breast 
(Act V, sc. ii). Jephtha's Daughter repeats the song 
with which she celebrated Israel's victory over Ammon 
{Judges, xi). The dream rounds itself into royal splen- 
dour, glittering with gems from legend and poetry: 
then it fades, never to be repeated, — 

Hojv eagerly I sought to strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams again! 
But no two dreams are like. 

Yet another type of subject taken from literature 
is found in "Dora" {p. 112). Mr. J. Churton Collins 
says: "The whole plot ... to the minutest details is 
taken from a prose story of Miss Mitford's. . . . That 
the poet's indebtedness to the novel has not been in- 
timated, is due no doubt to the fact that Tennyson, 
like Gray, leaves his commentators to track him to 
his raw material." ^ To understand the carelessness 

^ /. Churton Collins^ Illustrations of Tennyson. Chatto and 
WinduSy 1891. 

[liv] 



INTRODUCTION 

of Mr. Collins as a critic it is only necessary to point 
out the fact that the reference to Miss Mitford's story 
was distinctly given in a note to the first edition of 
the poem in 1842. But to appreciate fully the bold 
inaccuracy of his general statement one needs to read 
the pastoral of "Dora Creswell/' in Our Village, side 
by side with Tennyson's "Dora." In Miss Mitford's 
story Dora is a little girl; in Tennyson's poem she is 
a young woman. Miss Mitford tells nothing of the 
conflict between the old farmer and his son about 
the proposed marriage with Dora ; Tennyson makes it 
prominent in the working out of the plot. Miss Mit- 
ford makes the son marry the delicate daughter of a 
school-mistress; but in Tennyson's poem his choice 
falls on Mary Morrison^ a labourer's daughter, and, as 
the poem implies, a vigourous, healthy, independent 
girl. In Miss Mitford's story there is no trace of Dora's 
expulsion from the old farmer's house after she has 
succeeded, by a stratagem, in making him receive his 
little grandson, Mary's child; but Tennyson makes 
this the turning point of the most pathetic part of 
his poem, — Dora's winning of Mary's love, and their 
resolve that they will live together and bring up the 
child free from the influence of the old farmer's hard- 
ness. When the old man at last gives way, and takes 
Mary and Dora and the child home, Tennyson adds 
the final touch of insight to the little drama: — 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried iill her death. 

[ Iv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

The entire poem is written in the simplest lan- 
guage. It does not contain a single simile, nor a word 
used in an unfamiliar sense. Wordsworth said, "Mr. 
Tennyson, I have been endeavouring all my life to 
write a pastoral like your ^Dora/ and have not suc- 
ceeded." The contrast between the prose story with 
its abundance of pretty details, and the poem in 
beauty unadorned, illustrates the difference between 
neat work and fine work. 

The vi^dfying power of Tennyson's imagination is 
nowhere shown more clearly than in the great use 
which he makes of comparatively small hints and 
phrases from other writers. In his hands they seem to 
expand. They are lifted up, animated, ennobled. 

A good illustration of this kind of work may be 
seen in the way in which he handles the material 
taken from Sir Thomas Malory in the Morte d' Arthur. 
In Malory the King's rebuke to the unfaithful knight 
runs thus: "Ah, traitor untrue, now hast thou be- 
trayed me twice. Who would have weened that, thou 
that hast been to me so lief and dear.'' And thou art 
named a noble knight, and would betray me for the 
richness of the sword!" In Tennyson a new dramatic 
splendour enters into the reproach: — 

'Ahj miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow d of the power in his eye 
That bowd the will. I see thee ivhat thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 

[ Ivi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands* 

In Malory the King's parting address, spoken from 
the barge, is; "Comfort thyself, and do as well as 
thou may'st, for in me is no trust for to trust in; for I 
will into the vale of Avilion to heal me of my griev- 
ous wound : and if thou hear never more of me pray 
for my soul." In Tennyson these few words become 
the germ of the great passage beginning 

' The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
A?id God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrtipt the world/ — 

and closing with one of the noblest utterances in re- 
gard to prayer that can be found in the world's liter- 
ature. 

Malory says, "And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost 
the sight of the barge, he wept and wailed, and so 
took the forest." Tennyson makes us see the dark 
vessel moving away: — 

The barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 

[ Ivii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
A fid on the mere the wailing died away. 

The difference here is between the seed of poetry 
and the flower fully unfolded. 

Instances of the same enlarging and transforming 
power of Tennyson's genius may be noted in "The 
Revenge." Again and again he takes a bare fact given 
by Sir Walter Raleigh or Froude, and makes it flash 
a sudden lightning or roar a majestic thunder through 
the smoke of the wild sea-fight. {See vi-xi, pp. 97- 
100.) The whole poem is scrupulously exact in its 
fidelity to the historical records^ but it lifts the story 
on strong wings into the realm of vivid imagination. 
We do not merely hear about it: we see it, we feel 
it. 

Another illustration is found in "The Lotos-Eaters," 
lines 156-167 (/>. 48). This is expanded from Lucre- 
tius, De Rerum Natura, Hi, 15. "The divinity of the 
gods is revealed, and their tranquil abodes which 
neither winds do shake, nor clouds drench with rains, 
nor snow congealed by sharp frosts, harms with hoary 
fall: an ever cloudless ether over-canopies them, and 
they laugh with light shed largely round. Nature too 
supplies all their wants, and nothing ever impairs 
their peace of mind." But the vivid contrast between 
this luxurious state ofdolcefar niente and the troubles, 
toils, and conflicts of human life, is added by Tenny- 
son, and gives a new significance to the passage. 

We come now to Tennyson's use of the raw mate- 
rial lying close at hand, as yet untouched by the shap- 
ing spirit of literature, — newspaper stories, speeches, 

[ Iviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

tales of the country-side, legends and phrases pass- 
ing from lip to lip, suggestions from conversations 
and letters. He was quick to see the value of things 
that came to him in this way, and at the same time, 
as a rule, most clear in his discrimination between 
that which was merely interesting or striking, and that 
which was available for the purposes of poetry, and 
more particularly of such poetry as he could write. He 
did not often make Wordsworth's mistake of choos- 
ing themes in themselves trivial like ^^ Alice Fell," or 
"Goody Blake," or themes involving an incongruous 
and ridiculous element, like "Peter Bell" or "The 
Idiot Boy." If the subject was one that had a hu- 
mourous aspect, he gave play to his sense of humour 
in treating it. If it was serious, he handled it in a 
tragic or in a pathetic way, according to the depth 
of feeling which it naturally involved. Illustrations of 
these different methods may easily be found among 
his poems. 

The "Northern Farmer (Old Style)" was suggested 
by a story which his great-uncle told him about a 
Lincolnshire farm-bailiif who said, when he was dy- 
ing, "God A'mighty little knows what He's aboot, 
a-takin' me, an' ^Squire '11 be so mad an' all!" From 
this saying, Tennyson declares, he conjectured the 
whole man, depicted as he is with healthy vigour 
and kindly humour. It was the remark of a rich neigh- 
bour, "When I canters my 'erse along the ramper I 
'ears proputty, propidty, propuity" that suggested the 
contrasting character-piece, the "Northern Farmer 
(New Style)." The poem called "The Church- Warden 
and the Curate" was made out of a story told to the 
[ lix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

poet by the Rev. H. D. Rawnsley.^ "The Grandmo- 
ther" was suggested in a letter from Benjamin Jow- 
ett giving the saying of an old lady, "The spirits of 
my children always seem to hover about me." "The 
Northern Cobbler" was founded on a true story which 
Tennyson heard in his youth. "Owd Roa" was the 
poet's version of a report that he had read in a news- 
paper about a black retriever which saved a child 
from a burning house. To the end of his life he kept 
his familiarity with the Lincolnshire variety of Eng- 
lish, and delighted to read aloud his verses written in 
that racy and resonant dialect, which is now, unfor- 
tunately, rapidly disappearing in the dull march of 
improvement. 

Turning from these genre-pieces, we find two of his 
most powerful ballads, one intensely tragic, the other 
irresistibly pathetic, based upon incidents related in 
contemporary periodicals. In a penny magazine, called 
Old Brighton, he read a story of a young man named 
Rooke who was hanged in chains for robbing the 
mail, near the close of the eighteenth century. "When 
the elements had caused the clothes and flesh to de- 
cay, his aged mother, night after night, in all wea- 
thers, and the more tempestuous the weather the more 
frequent the visits, made a sacred pilgrimage to the 
lonely spot on the Downs, and it was noticed that on 
her return she always brought something away with 
her in her apron. Upon being watched, it was discov- 
ered that the bones of the hanging man were the ob- 
jects of her search, and as the wind and rain scattered 

1 Memories of the Tennysons^ hy H. D. Bawnsley, 3IacLehose, 
Glasgow, 1900, pp. 113 ff. 

[Ix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

them on the ground she conveyed them to her home. 
There she kept them, and, when the gibbet was stripped 
of its horrid burden, in the dead silence of the night, 
she interred them in the hallowed enclosure of Old 
Shoreham Churchyard." This is the tale. Imagine what 
Byron would have made of it; or Shelley, if we may 
judge by the gruesome details of the second part of 
"The Sensitive Plant." But Tennyson goes straight 
to the heart of the passion of motherhood, surviving 
shame and sorrow, conquering fear and weakness in 
that withered mother's breast. She tells her story in 
a dramatic lyric, a naked song of tragedy, a solitary, 
trembling war-cry of indomitable love. Against this 
second Rizpah, greater in her heroism than even the 
Hebrew mother whose deeds are told in the Book of 
Samuel, all the forces of law and church and society 
are arrayed. But she will not be balked of her human 
rights. She will hope that somewhere there is mercy 
for her boy. She will gather his bones from shame and 
lay them to rest in consecrated ground. 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left — 
/ stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will you call 

it a theft? 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had 

laugh' d a?id had cried, — 
Theirs? no! They are mine — not theirs — they had 

moved in my side. 

"\n the Children's Hospital" is a poem as tender 

as "Rizpah" is passionate. The story was told to 

Tennyson by Miss Mary Gladstone. An outline of it 

was printed in a parochial magazine under the title 

[Ixi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

"Alice's Christmas Day." The theme is the faith and 
courage of a child in the presence of pain and death. 
That the poet at seventy years of age should be able 
to enter so simply, so sincerely, so profoundly into 
the sweet secret of a suffering child's heart, is a 
marvellous thing. After all, there must be something 
moral and spiritual in true poetic genius. It is not 
mere intellectual power. It is temperament, it is sym- 
pathy, it is that power to put oneself in another's 
place, which lies so close to the root of the Golden 
Rule. 



C M ] 



INTRODUCTION 
IV 



Vos, o 
Pompilius sanguisy carmen reprekendite, quod non 
Malta dies et multa litura co'ercuit, atque 
Perfeclum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 

HORACE; De Arte Foetica, 291-294. 

The changes which a poet makes, from time to time, 
in the text of his poems may be taken in part as a 
measure of his power of self-criticism, and in part as 
a record of the growth of his mind. It is true, of course, 
that a man may prefer to put his new ideas altogether 
into new poems and leave the old ones untouched; 
true also that the creative impulse may be so much 
stronger than the critical as to make him impatient 
of the Imvs labor et mora. This was the case with Rob- 
ert Browning. There was a time when he made a point 
of turning out a poem every day. When reproached 
for his indifference to form, he said that ^the world 
must take him as it found him.* 

But Tennyson was a constant, careful corrector of 
his own verse. He held that "an artist should get his 
workmanship as good as he can, and make his work 
as perfect as possible. A small vessel, built on fine 
lines, is likely to float further down the stream of time 
than a big raft." He was keenly sensitive to the subtle 
effects of rhythm, the associations of words, the beauty 
of form. The deepening of thought and feeling which 
came to him with the experience of life did not make 
him indifferent to the technics of his craft as a poet. 
[ Ixiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Indeed it seemed to intensify his desire for perfection. 
The more he had to say the more carefully he wished 
to say it. 

The first and most important revision of his work 
began in the period of his greatest spiritual and in- 
tellectual growth, immediately after the death of his 
friend Hallam. The results of it were seen in the early 
poems, republished in the two volumes of 1842. From 
this time forward there were many changes in the suc- 
cessive editions of his poems. The Princess, published 
in 1847, was slightly altered in 1848, thoroughly re- 
vised in 1850 (when the intercalary songs were added), 
and considerably enlarged in 1851. The "Ode on the 
Death of the Duke of Wellington," printed as a pam- 
phlet in 1852, was immediately revised in 1853, and 
again much altered when it appeared in the same vol- 
ume with Maud in 1855. As late as August 1892, I 
heard Tennyson questioning whether the line describ- 
ing the cross of St. Paul's — 

That shines over city and river — 

should be changed to read. 

That shines upon city and river. 

There were general revisions in 1872 (The Library 
Edition), in 1874 (The Cabinet Edition), in 1884 (The 
Globe Edition), in 1886 (A New Library Edition, in 
ten volumes), in 1889:, ^I'^d in 1891. The complete 
single-volume edition, "with last alterations," was 
published in 1894. 

In Memoriam received less revision after its first pub- 

[ bdv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

lication than any other of Tennyson's larger poems ;^ 
j)robably because it had been so frequently worked 
over in manuscript. Sixteen years passed between its 
inception and its appearance in print. 

I propose to examine some of Tennyson's changes 
in his text in order that we may do what none of the 
critics have yet done, — get a clear idea of their gen- 
eral character and the particular reasons why he made 
them. These changes may be classified under five 
heads, descriptive of the different reasons for revision. 

1. For simplicity and naturalness. — There was a tinc- 
ture of archaism in the early diction of Tennyson, an 
occasional use of far-fetched words, an unfamiliar way 
of spelling, a general flavour of conscious exquisite- 
ness, which seemed to his maturer judgment to savour 
of affectation. These blemishes, due to the predomi- 
nance of the aesthetic impulse, he was careful to re- 
move. 

At first, he tells us, he had "an absurd antipathy" to 
the use of the hyphen ; and in 1 830 and 1 832 he wrote, 
in " Mariana," JIo?v€rplots,case7nentcurtain, marisJwiosses , 
silvergreen; and in "The Palace of Art," pleasurehouse, 
sunny warm, torrentboiv, clearwalled. In 1842 the despised 
hyphen was restored to its place, and the compound 
words were spelled according to common usage. He 
discarded also his early fashion of accenting the ed in 
the past participle, — wreathed, blenched, gleaned, etc. 

Archaic elisions, like "throne o' the massive ore" 
in "Recollections of the Arabian Nights" (/. 146), and 

1 Joseph Jacobs, Tennyson and In 3Iemoriam, notes sixty-two 
verbal changes. Two sections {xxxix, lix) have been added to the 
'poem. 

[ Ixv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

"up an' away" in "Mariana" (/. 50), and "whither 
away wi' the singing sail" in "The Sea- Fairies/' were 
eliminated. 

A purified and chastened taste made him prefer, in 
the "Ode to Memory/' 



to 



With plaited alleys of the trailing rose — 

[1842] 



With pleached alleys of the trailing rose. 

In "The Lady of Shalott" he left out 

A pearlgarland imnds her head: 
She leancih on a velvet bed, 
Full royally apparelled. 

In "Mariana" he substituted 

The day 
Was sloping toward his western bower, 

for 

The day 
Downsloped was westering in his bower. 



[1830] 



[1842] 



[1830] 



The general result of such alterations as these was 
to make the poems more simple and straightforward. 
In the same way we feel that there is great gain in 
the omission of the stanzas about a balloon which were 
originally prefixed to "A Dream of Fair Women/' and 
of the elaborate architectural and decorative details 
which overloaded the first version of "The Palace of 
Art/' and in the compression of the last strophe of 
"The Lotos-Eaters/' with its curious pictures of 'the 
[ Ixvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

tusked seahorse wallowing in a stripe of grassgreen 
calm/ and *^the monstrous narwhale swallowing his 
own foamfountains in the sea.' We can well spare these 
marine prodigies for the sake of such a line as 

RolVd to starboard, roll'd to larboai'd, when the surge was 

seething free. 

[1842] 

2. For melody and smoothness. — It was a constant 
wish of Tennyson to make his verse easy to read^ as 
musical as possible, except when the sense required a 
rough or broken rhythm. He had a strong aversion to 
the hissing sound of the letter s when it comes at the 
end of a word and at the beginning of the next word. 
He was always trying to get rid of this, — "kicking 
the geese out of the boat/' as he called it, — and he 
thought that he had succeeded. (Memoir, II, p. 14.) 
But this, of course, was a "flattering unction." It is 
not difficult to find instances of the double sibilant 
remaining in his verse: for example, in "A Dream of 
Fair Women" (/. 241): — 

She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood, 

and "Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere" (/. 23): — 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring. 

But for the most part he was careful to remove it, as 
in the following cases. 

"The Lady of Shalott" (/. 156): — 

A pale, pale corpse she floated by. 

[1833] 
A gleaming shape she floated by. 

[1842] 
[ Ixvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

"Mariana in the South" (//. 9-10): — 

Down in the dry salt-marshes stood 

That house darklatticed. 

[Omitted, 1842] 

"Locksley Hall" (/. 182): — 

Let the peoples spin for ever dofvn the ringing grooves of 

change. 

[1842] 

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves 

of change. 

[1845] 

Alterations were made in order to get rid of un- 
pleasant assonance in blank verse, as in ^^Q^^none" 
{I. 19).— 

She J leaning ow a vine-entwined stone. 

[1833] 

She, leaning o?i a fragment trvined with vine. 

[1842] 

Disagreeable alliterations were removed, as in ^^ Ma- 
riana" (/. 43): — 

For leagues no other tree did dark. 

[1830] 

For leagues no other tree did mark. 

[1842] 

"Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington" 
(/. 5):- 

When laurel-garlanded leaders fall. 

[1852] 

Mourning when their leaders fall. 

[1855] 

[ Ixviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 
Imperfect rhymes were corrected, as in " Mariana 
in the South" (/. 85): — 

One dry cicalas summer song 

At night Ji lied all the gallery, 

Backward the latticehlind she jiung 

And leaned upon the balcony. 

[1833] 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea, 

Backnmrd the lattice-blind she jiung. 

And leand upon the balcony. 

^ [1842] 

Incongruous and harsh expressions were removed, 
as in "The Poet" (/. 45): — 

And in the bordure of her robe was writ 

Wisdom, a name to shake 

Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderjit. 

[1830] 

And in her raiment's hem was traced inflame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 

All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 

'^ ^ [1842] 

Two very delicate and perfect examples of the same 
kind of improvement are found in the revision of 
"Claribel" (/. 11): — 

At noon the bee low-hummeth. 



At noon the wild bee hummeth. 

And(/. 17): — 

The fledgling throstle lispeth. 

[ Ixix ] 



[1830] 
[1842] 

[1830] 



INTRODUCTION 

The callow throstle lispeth. 

[1842] 

Some of the alterations in the WelHngton Ode are 
very happy. Line 79 originally read. 

And ever-ringing avenues of song. 

How much more musical is the present version: — 

And ever-echoing avenues of song! 

In line 133, ^^ world's earthquake" was changed to 
"world-earthquake." Line 267, — 

Hushf the Dead March sounds in the peoples ears, — 

[1853] 

was wonderfully deepened in 1855, when it was al- 
tered to 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the peoples ears. 

3. For clearness of thought. — The most familiar in- 
stance of this kind of revision is in " A Dream of Fair 
Women." In 1833 the stanza describing the sacrifice 
of Iphigenia ended with the lines 

One drew a sharp kiiife thro my tender throat 
Slowly, — and nothing more. 

A critic very properly inquired ^what more she would 
have.' The lines were changed to 

' The bright death quiver d at the victim's throat; 
Touch' d; and I knew no more.' 

There is another curious illustration in " Lady Clara 
Vere de Vere." In 1842 lines 49-52 read, — 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
[ Ixx ] 



INTRODUCTION 

The gardener Adam and his wife 
Smile at the claims of long descent. 

Line 51 was changed, in 184-5, to 

The grand old gardener and his wife, 

which was both weak and ambiguous. One might fancy 
(as a young lady of my acquaintance did) that the poet 
was speaking of some fine old gardener on the De 
Vere estate, who had died and gone to heaven. In 1875 
Tennyson restored the original and better reading, 
"The gardener Adam." 

A few more illustrations will suffice to show how 
careful he was to make his meaning clear. 

"Ode on the Death of the Duke of WeUington" 

(/. 157):- 

Of most unbounded reverence and regret. 
^ [1852] 

But it is hard to see how anything can be more or less 
unbounded; so the line was changed: — 

Of boundless reverence and regret. 

[1853] 

Of boundless love and reverence and regret. 

[1855] 

"The Marriage of Geraint" (/. 70): — 
They sleeping each by other. 

[1859J 

They sleeping each by either. 

"Lancelot and Elaine" (/. 45): — 

And one of these, the king, had on a crown. 

[1859] 

[ Ixxi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

A?id he that once was king had on a crown. 

[1874] 
Line l68: — 

Thither he made, and wound the gateway horn. 

[1859] 

Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. 

[1874] 

Line 1147: — 

Steer'd by the dumb, went uptvard with the flood. 

[1859] 

Oar'd by the dumb, ivent upward fvith the flood. 

[1874] 
"Guinevere" (/. 470): — 

To honour his own 7vord as if his God's: 

this line was not in the 1859 version. It enhances the 
solemnity of the oath of initiation into the Round 
Table. 

"The Passing of Arthur" (//. 462-469): — 

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw, 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand. 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
Someirhere far off, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the new year. 

These lines, with others, were added to "Morte d' Ar- 
thur/' the original form of this idyll, in order to bring 
[ Ixxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 
out the distant gleam of hope which is thrown upon 
the close of the epic by the vision of Arthur's immor- 
tality and the prophecy of his return. 

4. For truth in the description of iiature. — The alter- 
ations made for this reason are very many. I give a 
few examples. 

"The Lotos-Eaters" (/. 7): — 

Above the valley burned the golden moon. 

[1833] 

But in the afternoon (/. 3) the moon is of palest sil- 
ver; so the line was revised thus: — 

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon. 

[1842]- 

Line 16 originally read. 

Three thundercloven thrones of oldest snow. 

[1833] 

But, in the first place, it is the lightning, not the 
thunder, that cleaves the mountains ; and, in the sec- 
ond place, a snow-pealc, if struck by lightning, would 
not remain "cloven" very long, but would soon be 
covered with snow again. For these reasons, quite as 
much as for the sake of preserving the quiet and 
dreamy tone of Lotos-land, Tennyson changed the 
line to 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

[1842] 

In "Locksley Hall" (/. 3), the first reading was 

*Tis the place, and round the gables, as of old, the cur- 
lews call. 

[1842] 
[ Ixxiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

But the curlews do not fly close to the roofs of houses, 
as the swallows do; so the line was changed to 

'Tis the place J and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. 

[1845] 
"Mariana" (//. 3-4): — 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the gardenwall. 

[1830] 

This was not quite characteristic of a Lincolnshire gar- 
den; so it was altered, in 1863 and 1872, to the pre- 
sent form: — 

That held the pear to the gable-wall. 
"The Poet's Song" (/. 9): — 

The swallow stopped as he hunted the bee. 

[1842] 

But swallows do not hunt bees; so the line was 
changed to 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly. 

[1884] 

"Lancelot and Elaine" (//. Q52-Q5S):-- 

No surer than our falco7i yesterday, 

Who lost the hern we slipt him at. 

[1859] 

But the female falcon, being larger and fiercer, is the 
one usually employed in the chase ; so him was changed 
to her. 

There is a very interesting addition to In Memo- 
riam, which bears witness to Tennyson's scrupulous 
desire to be truthful in natural description. Section ii 

[ Ixxiv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

is addressed to an old Yew-tree in the graveyard, and 
contains this stanza: — 

not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale. 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom. 

But, as a matter of fact, the yew has its season of 
bloom; and so in Section xxxix, added in 1871, we 
find these lines: — 

To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after flower; 
But Sorrow, — fxt upon the dead. 

And darkening the dark graves of inen, — 
What whisper d from her lying lipsf 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips. 

And passes into gloom again. 

5. For deeper meaning and human interest. — In this 
respect the revision of "The Palace of Art" is most 
important. The stanzas added in the later editions of 
this poem have the effect of intensifying its signifi- 
cance, making the sin of self-centred isolation stand 
out sharply (//. 197-204), displaying the scornful con- 
tempt of the proud soul for common humanity (//. 
145-160), and throwing over the picture the Phari- 
see's robe of moral self-complacency (//. 205-208). 
The introduction in 183S began as follows: — 

1 send you, friend, a sort of allegory, 
(You are an artist and will understand 
Its many lesser meanings.) 
[ Ixxv ] 



INTRODUCTION 
But in 1842 the lines read 

/ send you here a sort of allegory, 
(For you will understand it.) 

The poet no longer addresses his work to an artist: 
he speaks more broadly to man as man. For the same 
reason he omits a great many of the purely decora- 
tive stanzas, and concentrates the attention on the 
spiritual drama. 

The addition of the Conclusion to "The May Queen" 
(1842) is another instance of Tennyson's enrichment 
of his work with warmer human interest. In the first 
two parts there is nothing quite so intimate in know- 
ledge of the heart as the lines 

look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; 
He shines upon a hundred Jields , and all of them 1 know. 

There is nothing quite so true to the simplicity of 
childlike faith as the closing verses: — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are 
at rest. 

The sixth strophe of the Chorie Song in "The Lo- 
tos-Eaters/' beginning 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears, — 

was added in 1842. 

In the "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Welling- 

[ Ixxvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

ton/' lines 266-270 were added after the first edi- 
tion: — 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

This passage brings a deep note of natural emotion 
into the poem. The physical effect of the actual inter- 
ment, the sight of the yawning grave, the rattle of the 
handful of earth thrown upon the coffin, are vividly 
expressed. 

A noteworthy change for the sake of expressing a 
deeper human feeling occurs in "The Lady of Sha- 
lott." The original form of the last stanza was merely 
picturesque: it described the wonder and perplexity 
of ^*^the wellfed wits at Camelot" when they looked 
upon the dead maiden in her funeral barge and read 
the parchment on her breast: — 

" The web was woven curiously, 

The charm is broken utterly. 

Draw near and fear not — this is I, 

The Lady of Shalott." 

[1833] 

But the revised version makes them "cross them- 
selves for fear," and brings the knight for secret love 
of whom the maiden died to look upon her face: — 

But Lancelot mused a little space : 
He said, 'She has a lovely Jace; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 
The Lady of Shalolt.' 
[ Ixxvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

The addition of the songs to The Princess (1850) 
must be regarded as evidence of a desire to deepen 
the meaning of the story. Tennyson said distinctly 
that he wished to make people see that the child was 
the heroine of the poem. The songs are a great help 
in this direction. In the Idylls of the King Tennyson 
took pains, as he went on with the series, to eliminate 
all traces of the old tradition w^hich made Modred the 
son of King Arthur and his half-sister Bellicent, thus 
sweeping away the taint of incest from the story, and 
revealing the catastrophe as the result of the unlaw- 
ful love of Lancelot and Guinevere. {See The Poehy of 
Te7inyson,pp. 171 ff.) He introduced many allegorical 
details into the later Idylls. And he endeavoured to 
enhance the epic dignity and significance of the series 
by inserting the closing passages of " The Coming of 
Arthur" and "The Passing of Arthur/' which present 
clearly the idea of a great kingdom rising under Ar- 
thur's leadership and falling into ruin with his defeat. 

A general study of the changes which Tennyson 
made in the text of his poems will show, beyond a 
doubt, not only that he was sensitive to the imperfec- 
tions in his work and ready to profit, at least to a cer- 
tain extent, by the suggestions of critics; but also 
that his skill as an artist was refined by use, and that 
his thoughts of life and his sympathies with mankind 
deepened and broadened with advancing years. Thus 
there was a compensation for the loss of something of 
the delicate, inimitable freshness, the novel and en- 
chanting charm, which breathed from the lyrics of his 
youth. 

[ Ixxviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 



THE CLASSIFICATION OF TENNYSON's POEMS 

Tennyson never attempted to arrange his works on 
any such formal scheme as Wordsworth used in classi- 
fying his poems for the edition of 1815 and followed 
in all subsequent editions. '^ Poems/' said he, "appar- 
ently miscellaneous, may be arranged either with re- 
ference to the powers of mind predomi?iant in the pro- 
duction of them; or to the mould in which they are 
cast; or, lastly, to the subjects to which they relate." 
He determined to use all three of these methods in 
dividing his poems into classes, and also, as far as pos- 
sible, to follow ''an order of time, commencing with 
Childhood, and terminating with Old Age, Death, and 
Immortality." 

The disadvantage, one might almost say the ab- 
surdity, of such a mixed method is obvious. The real 
value of classification lies in the unfolding of a single 
organic principle. Confusion is introduced when a 
compromise is made. It becomes difficult, if not im- 
possible, to understand just which one of several rea- 
sons has been allowed to determine any particular 
feature of the arrangement. One might as well try to 
classify flowers, at one and the same time, by their 
structure, their colour, and the order of their appear- 
ance. 

Tennyson's mind was not possessed by that sharp 
philosophical distinction between Fancy and Imagi- 
nation which played so large a part with Coleridge 
and Wordsworth. He had little of the analytical tem- 

[ Ixxix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

per which delights in making programmes. His view 
of poetry was less theoretical, more practical and con- 
crete, — the view of an artist, who regards his work 
as the direct and vital expression of his life, — rather 
than the view of a philosopher, who looks back upon 
his work as the illustration of a formula, and endeav- 
ours to make it fit. 

We find, therefore, that in the various editions of 
his collected works the poems are given, in general, 
according to the chronological order, beginning with 
Juvenilia, and closing with those which were con- 
tained in the last-published volume. From the first, 
this chronological arrangement involved a certain out- 
line of symmetrical development, following the suc- 
cessive impulses which came into his poetic art, and 
bringing together, quite naturally, poems in which a 
certain relation of spirit and manner may be felt. 
Later it was necessary, for the sake of order, to give a 
systematic arrangement to pieces which were written 
at different times, like the Idylls of the King and the 
Dramas. The general result of this method has been 
to present the longer poems. The Princess, Maud, In 
Memoria?n, and the Idylls of the King, in the centre 
of Tennyson's work, preceded by the miscellaneous 
poems of youth and followed by the miscellaneous 
poems of age. The collection begins with "Claribel," 
a lyric of delicate artistry, and ends with "Crossing 
the Bar," a lyric of profound meaning. 

But for the purposes of the present volume I think 

something a little different is desirable and possible. 

For here we have not the full record of his life and 

work as poet, but a selection of poems chosen to show 

[ Ixxx ] 



INTRODUCTION 

his chief characteristics, to represent the best that 
he has done in the different fields of his art, and to 
stand, at least approximately, as a measure of his con- 
tributions to that which is permanent in the various 
departments of English poetry. It is natural, there- 
fore, and indeed almost necessary for the end which 
we have in view, to try to arrange these contributions 
in general groups. 

The principle which 1 have followed is practical 
rather than theoretical. The old Greek division — 
lyric, dramatic, epic — could not well be strictly used 
because so much of Tennyson's work lies in the border- 
lands between these three great domains. The purely 
chronological arrangement was impracticable because 
it would separate, by long distances, poems which 
are as closely related as "Break, break, break" and 
"In the Valley of Cauteretz"; "Morte d' Arthur" and 
"Guinevere"; and the different sections of In Memo- 
riam. 

It seems to me better to bring together the poems 
which are really most alike in their general purpose 
and effect. 

I. Thus, for example, there is a kind of poetry of 
which the first charm resides in its appeal to the sense 
of beauty. This is not its only quality, of course, for all 
verse must have a meaning in order to have a value. 
But the prevailing effect of the kind of poetry of which 
I am speaking is the feeling of pleasure in graceful 
form, rich colour, the clear and memorable vision of 
outward things, or the utterance of emotion in haunt- 
ing music. Poems which have this musical and pictur- 
esque quality in predominance (whether or not they 
[ Ixxxi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

carry with them a deeper significance) are first of all 
Melodies and Pictures. With this kind of verse Tenny- 
son began ; in it^ as his art was developed, he attained 
a rare mastery; and to it a great deal of his most 
finely finished Avork belongs. 

For this reason the present volume begins with a se- 
lection of lyrics of this general class: first, those in 
which the melodic element, the verbal music, is the 
main charm ; second, those in which the chief delight 
comes from the pictorial element, the vivid description 
of things seen. I do not imagine that this distinction 
can be closely applied, or that all readers would draw 
it in the same way. But at least I hope that in both 
groups of this main division a certain order of advance 
can be seen : a deeper meaning coming into the melo- 
dies, a broader human interest coming into the pic- 
tures. 

II. In the next general division, — Ballads, Idyls, 
and Character-Pieces, — the significance has become 
more important than the form. The interest of the 
poems lies in the story which they tell, in the charac- 
ter which they reveal, in the mood of human experi- 
ence which they depict. The chief value of the mel- 
ody lies in its vital relation to the mood. The great 
charm of the bits of natural description lies in their 
almost invariable harmony with the central thought 
of the poem. The idyl is a picture coloured by an 
emotion and containing a human figure, or figures, in 
the foreground. It lies in the border-land between the 
lyric and the epic. The character-piece is a mono- 
logue in which a person is disclosed in utterance, 
mainly, if not altogether, from the side of thought, of 
[ Ixxxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

remembrance, of reflection. It lies in the border-land 
between the epic and the drama. The dramatic lyric 
is an emotional self-disclosure, not of the poet himself, 
but of some chosen character, historical or imaginary. 
It lies in the border-land between the lyric and the 
drama. The ballad is a story told in song, briefly and 
with strong feeling. It may receive a dramatic touch 
by being told in character. But usually it belongs in 
the border-land between the epic and the lyric. 

Turning now to the poems which are brought 
together in this second division, we find that their 
controlling purpose is to tell us something about hu- 
man character and life. They are larger in every way 
(though not necessarily more perfect) than the Melo- 
dies and Pictures, but their theme is still confined to 
a single event, a single character, or a single mood. 
They are related to the epic as the short story is to 
the novel. Their dramatic element is fully expressed 
only in the person who is speaking ; the other charac- 
ters and the plot of the play are implied. Maud is, I 
believe, the unique example of a drama presented in 
successive lyrics, — a lyrical Monodrama. 

III. The reason why selections from Tennyson's 
regular dramas have not been given in this volume is 
stated in another place. The limitations of space have 
prevented the use of anything more than fragments 
of his epics. They will be found in the third general 
division. Selections from Epic Poems, and are to be 
taken chiefly as illustrations of his manner of dealing 
with a broader theme. To judge how far he was able 
to tell a long rich story, how far he understood the 
architectural principles of epic poetry, one must turn 
[ Ixxxiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

directly to The Princess and Idylls of the King, and 
study them not in fragments but as complete poems. 

IV. In the fourth general division, Perso?ial and 
Philosophic Poems, we hear Tennyson speaking to us 
more directly, delivering his personal message in re- 
gard to problems of life and destiny, giving his own 
answers to questions of faith and duty. I do not mean 
that these are the only poems in which his personal 
convictions are expressed; nor that these poems are 
always and altogether subjective and confessional. 
Doubtless in some of them (as, for example ^'The 
Ancient Sage") there is a dramatic element. But 
this is what I mean : the chief element of interest in 
these poems lies in what Matthew Arnold calls ^^the 
criticism of life," — not abstract, impersonal, indirect 
criticism, but the immediate utterance of Tennyson's 
deepest thoughts and feelings. Here we have what 
he wishes to say to us, (not as preacher or philosopher 
or politician, but as poet,) about the right love of 
country, the true service of art, and the real life of 
the spirit. 

There is room for difference of opinion in regard to 
the place of particular poems in these general divi- 
sions. But I feel sure that the order of the divisions 
is that which should be followed in trying to estimate 
the quality and permanent value of Tennyson's work. 

The first object of poetry is to impart pleasure 
through the imagination by the expression of ideas 
and feelings in metrical language. But there is rank 
and degree in pleasures. The highest are those in 
which man's best powers find play: the powers of love 
and hope and faith which strengthen and ennoble 
[ Ixxxiv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

human nature. Thus from the verbal melodies and 
pictures which have so delicate an enchantment for 
the aesthetic sense^ we pass onward and upward to 
the human portraits which have a story to tell, and 
the larger scenes in which the social life of man is 
illustrated; and from these we rise again to the re- 
gion where divine philosophy becomes "musical as is 
Apollo's lute." The singer whose melodies charm us 
is a true poet. The bard whose message thrills, up- 
lifts, and inspires us is a great poet. 



[ Ixxxv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

VI 

THE QUALITIES OF TENNYSON's POETRY 

"His inusic was the south-wind's sigh. 
His lamp, the jnaiden's downcast eye, 
And ever the spell of beauty came 
And turned the drowsy world to flame. 
By lake and stream and gleaming hall 
And modest copse and the forest tall, 
Where er he yvent, the magic guide 
Kept its place by the poet's side. 
Said melted the days like ciqos of pearl. 
Served high and low, the lord and the churl, 
Loved harebells nodding on a rock, 
A cabiti hung fvith curling smoke. 
Ring of axe or hum of ivheel 
Or gleam which use can paint on steel. 
And hits and tejits; nor loved he less 
Stately lords in palaces, 
Princely women hard to please. 
Fenced by form and ceremony. 
Decked by rites and courtly dress 
And etiquette of gentilesse. 

He came to the green oceans brim 
And saw the wheeling sea-birds skim, 
Summer aiid wi?iter, o er the wave 
hike a-eatures of a skiey mould 
Impassible to heat or cold. 
He stood before the tumbling main 
With joy too tense for sober brain; 

[ Ixxxvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

And he, the bard, a crystal soul 
Sphered and concentric with the whole" 

EMERSON: The Poetic Gift. 

If an unpublished poem by Tennyson — say an idyll 
of chivalry, a classical character-piece, a modern dra- 
matic lyric, or even a little song — were discovered, 
and given out without his name, it would be easy, pro- 
vided it belonged to his best work, to recognize it as 
his. But it is by no means easy to define just what it 
is that makes his poetry recognizable. It is not the 
predominance of a single trait or characteristic. If 
that were the case, it would be a simple matter to 
put one's finger upon the hall-mark. It is not a fixed 
and exaggerated mannerism. That is the sign of the 
Tennysonians, rather than of their master. His style 
varies from the luxuriance of "A Dream of Fair Wo- 
men" to the simplicity of "The Oak," from the light- 
ness of "The Brook" to the stateliness of "Guine- 
vere." There is as much difference of manner between 
"The Gardener's Daughter" and "Ulysses," as there 
is between Wordsworth's "Solitary Reaper" and his 
"Dion." 

The most remarkable thing about Tennyson's poe- 
try as a whole is that it expresses so fully and so vari- 
ously the qualities of a many-sided and well-balanced 
nature. But when we look at the poems separately 
we see that, in almost every case, the quality which 
is most closely related to the subject of the poem plays 
the leading part in giving it colour and form. There 
is a singular fitness, a harmonious charm in his work, 
not unlike that which distinguishes the painting of 

[ Ixxxvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Titian. It is not^ indeed, altogether spontaneous and 
unstudied. It has the effect of choice, of fine selec- 
tion. But it is inevitable enough in its way. The choice 
being made, it would be hard to better it. The words 
are the right words, and each stands in its right place. 
The one thing that cannot justly be said of it, it 
seems to me, is precisely what Tennyson says in a cer- 
tain place: — 

/ do hut sing because I must, 
And pipe but as the linnets sing. 

That often seems true of Burns and Shelley, and 
sometimes of Keats. But it is not true of Spenser, or 
Milton, or Gray, or Tennyson. They do not pour forth 
their song 

" In profuse strains of unpremeditated art." 

I shall endeavour in the remaining pages of this in- 
troduction to describe and illustrate some of the qual- 
ities which are found in Tennyson's poetry. 

1. His diction is lucid, suggestive, melodious. He 
avoids, for the most part, harsh and strident words, 
intricate constructions, strange rhymes, startling con- 
trasts. He chooses expressions which have a natural 
rhythm, an easy flow, a clear meaning. He has a rare 
mastery of metrical resources. Many of his lyrics seem 
to be composed to a musical cadence which his in- 
ward ear has caught in some happy phrase. 

He prefers to use those metrical forms which are 
free and fluent, and in which there is room for subtle 
modulations and changes. In the stricter modes of 
verse he is less happy. The sonnet, the Spenserian 

[ Ixxxviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

stanza, the heroic couplet, the swift couplet (octosyl- 
labic), — these he seldom uses, and little of his best 
work is done in these forms. Even in four-stress iambic 
triplets, the metre in which "Two Voices" is written, 
he seems constrained and awkward. He is at his best 
in the long swinging lines of "Locksley Hall" (eight- 
stress trochaic couplets) ; or in a free blank verse (five- 
stress iambic), which admits all the Miltonic liberty 
of shifted and hovering accents, grace-notes, omitted 
stresses, and the like; or in mixed measures like "The 
Revenge" and the Wellington Ode, where the rhythm 
is now iambic and now trochaic; or in metres which 
he invented, like "The Daisy," or revived, like In 
Memoriam; or in little songs like "Break, break, 
break" and "The Bugle-Song," where the melody is 
as unmistakable and as indefinable as the feeling. 

He said, "Englishmen fvill spoil English verses by 
scanning them when they are reading, and they con- 
found accent with quantity." " In a blank verse you can 
have from three up to eight beats; but, if you vary the 
beats unusually, your ordinary newspaper critic sets 
up a howl." {Memoir, //, 12, 14.) He liked the "run-on" 
from line to line, the overflow from stanza to stanza. 
Much of his verse is impossible to analyze if you in- 
sist on looking for regular feet according to the classic 
models; but if you read it according to the principle 
which Coleridge explained in the preface to"Christa- 
bel," by "counting the accents, not the syllables," you 
will find that it falls into a natural rhythm. It seems 
as if his own way of reading it aloud in a sort of chant 
were almost inevitable. 

This close relation of his verse to music may be felt 
[ Ixxxix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

in Maud, and in his perfect little lyrics like the au- 
tumnal ^^Song/' "The Throstle," "Tears, idle tears," 
"Sweet and low," and "Far — far — away." Here also 
we see the power of suggestiveness, the atmospheric 
effect, in his diction. Every word is in harmony with 
the central emotion of the song, vague, delicate, in- 
timate, mingled of sweetness and sadness. 

The most beautiful illustration of this is "Crossing 
the Bar" {p. 342). Notice how the metre, in each 
stanza, rises to the long third line, and sinks away 
again in the shorter fourth line. The poem is in two 
parts ; the first stanza corresponding, in every line, to 
the third; the second stanza, to the fourth. In each 
division of the song there is first, a clear, solemn, 
tranquil note, — a reminder that the day is over and 
it is time to depart. The accent hovers over the words 
"sunset" and "twilight," and falls distinctly on "star" 
and "bell." Then come two thoughts of sadness, the 
"moaning of the bar," the "sadness of farewell," from 
which the voyager prays to be delivered. The answer 
follows in the two pictures of peace and joy, — the 
full, calm tide bearing him homeward, — the vision of 
the unseen Pilot who has guided and will guide him 
to the end of his voyage. Every image in the poem 
is large and serene. Every word is simple, clear, har- 
monious. 

The movement of a very different kind of music — 
martial, sonorous, thrilling — may be heard in "The 
Charge of the Heavy Brigade." 

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 
Follow' d the Heavy Brigade, — 

[ xc] 



INTRODUCTION 

reproduces with extraordinary force the breathless, 
toilsome, thundering assault. 

His verse often seems to adapt itself to his mean- 
ing with an almost magical effect. Thus, in the Wel- 
lington Ode, when the spirit of Nelson welcomes the 
great warrior to his tomb in St. Paul's, — 

Who is he that cometh, like an honour d guest, 

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? — 

we can almost hear the funeral march and see the vast, 
sorrowful procession. In ^^Locksley Hall," — 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords 

with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passd i7i music 

out of sight, — 

what value there is in the word '^'^ trembling" and in 
the slight secondary pause that follows it; how the 
primary pause in the preceding bar, dividing it, em- 
phasizes the word "Self." In The Princess there is a 
line describing one of the curious Chinese ornaments 
in which a series of openwork balls are carved one 
inside of another: — 

Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. 

One can almost see the balls turning and glisten- 
ing. In the poem "To Virgil" there is a verse prais- 
ing the great Mantuan's lordship over language: — 

All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a 
lonely word. 

[ xci ] 



INTRODUCTION 

This illustrates the very quality that it describes. 
"Flowering" is the magical word. 

But it is not so often the "lonely word" that is 
wonderful in Tennyson, as it is the company of words 
which blossom together in colour-harmony, the air of 
lucid beauty that envelops the many features of a land- 
scape and blends them in a perfect picture. This is 
his peculiar charm; and it is illustrated in many 
passages, but nowhere better than in In Memoriam, 
Ixxxvi, — 

Sweet after shofvers, ambrosial air, 

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, — 

and in the perfect description of autumn's sad tran- 
quillity. Section xi, — 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 

And waves that sway themselves in rest. 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

2. Tennyson's closeness of observation, fidelity of 
description, and felicity of expression in nature-poe- 
try have often been praised. In spite of his near- 
sightedness he saw things with great clearness and 
accuracy. All his senses seem to have been alert and 
true. In this respect he was better fitted to be an 
observer than Wordsworth, in whom the colour-sense 
was not especially vivid, and whose poetry shows little 
or no evidence of the sense of fragrance, although his 
ears caught sounds with wonderful fineness and his 
[ xcii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

eyes were quick to note forms and movements. Bay- 
ard Taylor once took a walk with Tennyson in the 
Isle of Wight,, and afterward wrote: "During the con- 
versation with which we beguiled the way I was struck 
with the variety of his knowledge. Not a little flower 
on the downs, which the sheep had spared, escaped 
his notice, and the geology of the coast, both terres- 
trial and submarine, was perfectly familiar to him. I 
remembered the remark I once heard from the lips 
of a distinguished English author [Thackeray], that 
^Tennyson was the wisest man he knew,' and could 
well believe that he was sincere in making it." 

But Tennyson's relation to nature differed from 
Wordsworth's in another respect than that which has 
been mentioned, and one in which the advantage lies 
with the earlier poet. Wordsworth had a personal in- 
timacy with nature, a confiding and rejoicing faith in 
her unity, her life, and her deep beneficence, which 
made him able to say: — 

" This prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her: 'tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intej'course of daily life. 
Shall e er prevail against us, or disturb 

[ xciii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full oj ' blessings. 

There is no utterance like this in Tennyson's poe- 
try. He had not a profound and permanent sense of 
that "something far more deeply interfused" in na- 
ture which gives her a consoling^ liberating, nourish- 
ing power, — a maternal power. In "Enoch Arden" 
the solitude of nature, even in her richest beauty, is 
terrible. In "Locksley Hall" the disappointed lover 
calls not on Mother-Nature, but on his "Mother- 
Age," the age of progress, of advancing knowledge, 
to comfort and help him. In Maud the unhappy hero 
says, not that he will turn to nature, but that he will 
'bury himself in his books.' Whether it was because 
Tennyson saw the harsher, sterner aspects of nature 
more clearly than Wordsworth did, or because he had 
more scientific knowledge, or because he was less sim- 
ple and serene, it remains true that he did not have 
that steady and glad confidence in her vital relation 
to the spirit of man, that overpowering joy in surren- 
der to her purifying and moulding influence, which 
Wordsworth expressed in the " Lines composed a few 
miles above Tintern Abbey," in 1798, and in "De- 
votional Incitements" in 1832, and in many other po- 
ems written between these dates. Yet it must be 
observed that Wordsworth himself, in later life, felt 
some abatement of his unquestioning and all-sufficing 
faith in nature, or at least admitted the need of some- 
thing beside her ministry to satisfy all the wants of 
the human spirit. For in "An Evening Voluntary" 
(1834), he writes: — 

[ xciv ] 



II 



INTRODUCTION 

" By grace divine, 
Not otherwise J Nature! are we thine'' 

Mr. Stopford Brooke has observed that the poetry 
of both Scott and Byron contains many utterances of 
delight in the wild and solitary aspects of nature, 
and that we find little or nothing of this kind in 
Tennyson. From this Mr. Brooke infers that he had 
less real love of nature for her own sake than the two 
poets named. The inference is not well grounded. 

Both Scott and Byron were very dependent upon 
social pleasure for their enjoyment of life, — much 
more so than Tennyson. Any one who will read By- 
ron's letters may judge how far his professed passion 
for the solitudes of the ocean and the Alps was sin- 
cere, and how far it was a pose. Indeed, in one place, 
if I mistake not, he maintains the theory that it is 
the presence of man's work — the ship on the ocean, 
the city among the hills — that lends the chief charm 
to nature. 

Tennyson was one of the few great poets who have 
proved their love of nature by living happily in the 
country. From boyhood up he was well content to 
spend long, lonely days by the seashore, in the woods, 
on the downs. It is true that as a rule his tempera- 
ment found more joy in rich landscapes and gardens 
of opulent bloom, than in the wild, the savage, the 
desolate. But no man who was not a true lover of na- 
ture for her own sake could have written the "Ode 
to Memory," or this stanza from "Early Spring": — 

The woods with living airs 
How softly f ami d, 
[ xcv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Light airs from where the deep, 

All dowji the sand, 
Is breathing in his sleep. 

Heard by the land. 

Nor is there any lack of feeling for the sublime in such 
a poem as "The Voice and the Peak": — 

The voice and the Peak 

Far over summit and laivn, 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of da?vn ! 

It would be easy to fill many pages with illustra- 
tions of Tennyson's extraordinary vividness of per- 
ception and truthfulness of description in regard to 
nature. He excels, first of all, in delicate pre-Ra- 
phaelite work, — the painting of the flowers in the 
meadow, the buds on the trees, the movements of 
waves and streams, the birds at rest and on the wing. 
Looking at the water, he sees the 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowiiig down to Camelot. 

[The Lady of Shalott.] 

With a single touch he gives the aspect of the mill 
stream: — 

The sleepy pool above the dam, 
The pool beneath it never still. 

[The Miller'' s Daughter.] 
[ xcvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 
He shows us 

a shoal 
Of darting Jishy that on a summer morn 
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping oer their shadotvs on the sand. 
But if a man who stands npo?i the brink 
But lift a shining hand against the sun. 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets ivhite injloiver. 

[Geraint and Enid.] 
He makes us see 

the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines, 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried. 

[Ode to Memory.] 

He makes us hear, through the nearer voice of the 
stream. 

The drumming thunder of the huger fall 

At distance, 

[Geraint and Enid.] 
or 

The scream of a madden d beach draggd down 

by the ?vave. 

[Maud.] 

Does he speak of trees? He knows the difference 
between the poplars' 

noise of falling showers, 

[Elaine.] 
and 

The dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk, 

[Maud.] 
[ xcvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

and the voice of the cedar, 

sighing for Lebanon, 
In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East. 

{Maud.\ 
He sees how 

A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime; 

[Maud.] 
and how the chestnut-buds begin 

To spread into the perfect fan 
Above the teeming gi'ound. 

[Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere.] 

He has watched the hunting-dog in its restless 
sleep, — 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, — 

[Locksley Hall.] 

and noted how the lonely heron, at sundown, 

forgets his melancholy, 
Lets down his other leg, and stretching dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 

[Gareth and Lynette.] 
There is a line in In Memoriam, — 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March, — 

which Tennyson meant to describe the kingfisher. A 
friend criticised it and said that some other bird must 
have been intended, because "the kingfisher shoots 
by, flashes by, but never flits." But, in fact, to fit, 
which means "to move lightly and swiftly," is pre- 
cisely the word for the motion of this bird, as it darts 
along the stream with even wing-strokes, shifting its 
[ xcviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

place from one post to another. Tennyson gives both 
the colour and the flight of the kingfisher with abso- 
lute precision. 

But it is not only in this pre-Raphaehte work that 
his extraordinary skill is shown. He has also the power 
of rendering vague, wide landscapes, under the men- 
acing shadow of a coming storm, in the calm of an 
autumnal morning, or in the golden light of sunset. 
Almost always such landscapes are coloured by the 
prevailing emotion or sentiment of the poem. Tenny- 
son holds with Coleridge that much of what we see 
in nature is the reflection of our own life, our inmost 
feelings : — 

''Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shrouds 

In ^^The Gardener's Daughter," Tennyson describes 
the wedding-garment: — 

All the land injloweiy squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-hloiving wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one Iwge cloud 
Drew downward; but all else of heaven was pure 
Up to the sun, and May from verge to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. 

But in "Guinevere," it is the shroud: — 

For all abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land mas still. 

3. The wide range of human sympathy in Tenny- 
son's work is most remarkable. The symbolic poem, 
"Merlin and The Gleam" (p. 258), describes his po- 
[ xcix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

etic life. Following the Gleam, — "the higher poetic 
imagination/' — he passes from fairy-land into the 
real world and interprets the characters and conflicts, 
the labours and longings, of all sorts and conditions of 
men. He speaks for childhood in "The May Queen" 
and "In the Children's Hospital"; for motherhood in 
"Rizpah" and "Demeter"; for seamen in "The Re- 
venge" and "Columbus" and "The Voyage of Mael- 
dune" and "Enoch Arden"; for soldiers in "The 
Charge of the Light Brigade" and "The Charge of the 
Heavy Brigade" and "The Defence of Lucknow"; 
for philosophers in "Lucretius" and "The Ancient 
Sage"; for the half-crazed ascetic in "St. Simeon 
Stylites," and for the fearless reformer in "Sir John 
Oldcastle"; for the painter in "Romney's Remorse"; 
for the rustic in the "Northern Farmer"; for religious 
enthusiasm, active, in "Sir Galahad," and passive, in 
"St. Agnes' Eve"; for peasant life in "Dora," and for 
princely life in "The Day Dream"; for lovers of dif- 
ferent types in "Maud," and "Locksley Hall," and 
"Aylmer's Field," and" Love and Duty," and" Happy," 
and "CEnone," and "The Lover's Tale," and "Lady 
Clare." 

He is not, it must be admitted, quite as deep, as 
inward, as searching as Wordsworth is in some of his 
peasant portraits. There is a revealing touch in "Mi- 
chael," in "Margaret," in "Resolution and Independ- 
ence," to which Tennyson rarely, if ever, attains. 
Nor is there as much individuality and intensity in 
his pictures as we find in the best of Browning's dra- 
matis personce, like "Saul" and "Rabbi Ben Ezra," and 
"Andrea del Sarto," and "The Flight of the Duch- 
[ c ] 



INTRODUCTION 

ess." Tennyson brings out in his characters that which 
is most natural and normal. He does not delight, as 
Browning does, in discovering the strange, the eccen- 
tric. Nor has he Browning's extraordinary acquaint- 
ance with the technical details of different arts and 
trades, and with the singular features of certain ep- 
ochs of history, like the Renaissance. 

But, on the other hand, if Tennyson has less intel- 
lectual curiosity in his work, he has more emotional 
sympathy. His characters are conceived on broader 
lines; they are more human and typical. Even when 
he finds his subject in some classic myth, it is the hu- 
man element that he brings out. This is the thing that 
moves him. He studies the scene, the period, carefully 
and closely in order to get the atmosphere of time and 
place. But these are subordinate. The main interest, 
for him, lies in the living person into whose place he 
puts himself and with whose voice he speaks. Thus in 
"Tithonus" he dwells on the loneliness of one who 
must "vary from the kindly race of men" since the gift 
of "cruel immortality" has been conferred upon him. 
In"Demeter and Persephone "the most beautiful pas- 
sage is that in which the goddess-mother tells of her 
yearning for her lost child. 

4. Tennyson's work is marked by frequent reference 
to the scientific discoveries and social movements of 
his age. Wordsworth's prophetic vision of the time 
"when the discoveries of the chemist, the botanist, 
or mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the poet's 
art as any upon which it can be employed," because 
these things and the relations under which they are 
contemplated will be so familiarized that we shall see 
[ ci ] 



INTRODUCTION 

that they are ^' parts of our life as enjoying and suf- 
fering beings/' — this prediction of the advent of sci- 
ence, transfigured by poetry, as "a, dear and genuine 
inmate of the household of man," was fulfilled, at least 
in part, in the poetry of Tennyson. 

In "The Two Voices" Tennyson alludes to modern 
osteology : — 

Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy hones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man. 

In the twenty-first section of In Memonam he prob- 
ably alludes to the discovery of the satellite of Nep- 
tune : — 

^ When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 
Her secret from the latest moon.' 

In the twenty-fourth section he speaks of sun-spots: — 

The very source and fount of Day 
Is dasKd with wandenng isles of night. 

In the thirty-fifth section he alludes to the process of 
denudation : — 

The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 
The dust of continents to he. 

The nebular hypothesis of Laplace and the theory 
of evolution are conceived and expressed with won- 
derful imaginative power in the one hundred and 
eighteenth section. In the fourth section a subtle fact 
[ cii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

of physical science is translated into an image of po- 
etic beauty: — 

Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

"Locksley Hall" is full of echoes of the scientific 
inventions and the social hopes of the mid-century. 
In "Locksley Hall Sixty Years After" the old man 
speaks, with disenchanted spirit, of the failure of 
many of these hopes and the small value of many of 
these inventions, but he still holds to the vision of 
human progress guided by a divine, unseen Power: — 

When the schemes and all the systems. Kingdoms and Re- 
publics fall. 

Something kindlier, higher, holier, — all for each and each 
for all? 

All the full-brain, half -brain races, led by Justice, Love, 

and Truth; 
All the millions o?ie at length with all the visions of my 

youth ? 

Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single 

tongue — 
I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as yet so 

young? 

Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kilVd, 
Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd. 

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, 
Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles. 

[ ciii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

5. As in its form, so in its spirit, the poetry of Ten- 
nyson is marked by a constant and controlling sense 
of law and order. He conceives the universe under 
the sway of great laws, physical and moral, which are 
in themselves harmonious and beautiful, as well as 
universal. Disorder, discord, disaster, come from the 
violation of these laws. Beauty Ues not in contrast 
but in concord. The noblest character is not that in 
which a single faculty or passion is raised to the high- 
est pitch, but that in which the balance of the pow- 
ers is kept, and the life unfolds itself in a well- 
rounded fulness: — 

That mind and soul, according well, 
May make one music as before, 
But vaster. 

Such is the character which is drawn from memory 
in the description of Arthur Hallam in In Memoriam; 
and from imagination in the picture of King Arthur 
in the Idylls. 

Tennyson belongs in the opposite camp from the 
poets of revolt. To him such a vision of the swift 
emancipation of society as Shelley gives in "Prome- 
theus Unbound," or "The Revolt of Islam," was not 
merely impossible ; it was wildly absurd, a dangerous 
dream. His faith in the advance of mankind rested on 
two bases ; first, his intuitive belief in the benevolence 
of the general order of the universe: — 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will he the final goal of ill : — 

and second, his practical confidence in the success — 

[ civ ] 



INTRODUCTION 

or at least in the immediate usefulness — of the efforts 
of men to make the world around them better little 
by little. Evolution, not revolution, was his watch- 
word. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

is his cry in the first ^^Locksley Hall"; and in the sec- 
ond he says, 

Follow Light, and do the Right — for man can half -con- 
trol his doom — 
Till you see the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb. 

In the patriotic poems we find that Tennyson's love 
of country is sane, sober, steadfast, thoughtful. He 
dislikes the ^' blind hysterics of the Celt," and fears 
the red "fool-fury of the Seine." He praises England 
as 

A land of settled goverfiment, 

A land of old and just re?iorvn, 
Where freedom slowly broadens down 
From precedent to precedent. 

His favourite national heroes are of the Anglo-Saxon 
type, sturdy, resolute, self-contained, following the 
path of duty. He rejoices not only in the service which 
England has rendered to the cause of law-encircled 
liberty, but in the way in which she has rendered it: — 

Whatever harmonies of lafv 

The growing world assume, 
Thy work is thine — The single note 
From that deep chord ?vhich Hampden smote 

Will vibrate to the doom. 

[cv] 



INTRODUCTION 

He praises the peaceful reformer as the chief bene- 
factor of his country : — 

Not he that breaks the dams, hut he 

That thro the channels of the State 
Convoys the people s ivish, is great; 

His name is pure, his fame is free. 

[Contributed to the Shakespearean Show-Book, 1884.] 

He is a republican at heart, holding that the Queen's 
throne must rest 

Broad-based upon her people's ?vill, 

[To the Queen.] 

and he does not hesitate to express his confidence in 

our slowly-grown 
And crown'd Republic's crowning common-sense. 

[Epilogue to Idylls of the King.] 

But he has no faith in the unguided and ungoverned 
mob. He calls Freedom 

Thou loather of the lawless crown 
As of the lawless crowd. 

[Freedom, 188 4.] 
It has been said that his poetry shows no trace of 
sympathy with the struggles of the people to resist 
tyranny and defend their liberties with the sword. 
This is not true. In one of his earliest sonnets he 
speaks with enthusiasm of Poland's fight for freedom, 
and in one of his latest he hails the same spirit and 
the same effort in Montenegro. In "The Third of 
February, 1852," he expresses his indignation at the 
coup d'etat by which Louis Napoleon destroyed the 

[ cvi ] 



INTRODUCTION 
French Republic, and praises the revolutions which 
overthrew Charles I and James II. He dedicates a 
sonnet to Victor Hugo, the '^•^ stormy voice of France." 
With the utmost deliberation and distinctness he jus- 
tifies the cause of the colonies in the American Revo- 
lution: once in '*^ England and America in 1782," and 
again in the ode for the ^^ Opening of the Indian and 
Colonial Exhibition," 1886. 

It has been said that he has no sympathy with the 
modern idea of the patriotism of humanity, — that his 
love of his own country hides from him the vision of 
universal liberty and brotherhood. This is not true. 
He speaks of it in many places, — in "Locksley Hall," 
in f^ Victor Hugo," in ^^The Making of Man,"— and 
in the "Ode sung at the Opening of the Interna- 
tional Exhibition," 1861, he urges free commerce and 
peaceful cooperation among the nations: — 

Till each manjind his own in all mens good, 
And all men wo?'k in noble brotherhood, 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers. 
And ruling by obeying Nature s powers, 
And gathering all the fruits of earth and ci'ownd 
with all her flowers. 

It may be, as the Rev. Stopford Brooke says in his 
book on Tennyson, that this view of things is less 
"poetic" than that which is presented by the poets 
of revolt, that it "lowers the note of beauty, of fire, 
of aspiration, of passion." But after all, it was Tenny- 
son's real view and he could not well deny or conceal 
it. The important question is whether it is true and 
just. And that is the first question which a great poet 
[ cvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

asks. He does not lend himself to the proclamation 
of follies and falsehoods, however fiery, merely for 
the sake of being more "poetic." 

In Tennyson's love poems, while there is often an 
intensity of passion, there is also a singular purity of 
feeling, a sense of reverence for the mystery of love, 
and a profound loyalty to the law^s which it is bound 
to obey in a harmonious and well-ordered world. True, 
he takes the romantic, rather than the classical, at- 
titude towards love. It comes secretly, suddenly, by 
inexplicable ways. It is irresistible, absorbing, the 
strongest as well as the most precious thing in the 
world. But he does not therefore hold that it is a thing 
apart from the rest of life, exempt, uncontrollable, 
lawless. On the contrary, it should be, in its perfec- 
tion, at once the inspiration and the consummation 
of all that is best in life. In love, truth and honour 
and fidelity and courage and unselfishness should 
come to flower. 

There is none of the iridescence of decadent eroto- 
mania in Tennyson's love poetry. The fatal shame of 
that morbid and consuming fever of the flesh is touched 
in the description of the madness of Lucretius, in 
'^Balin and Balan," and in "Merlin and Vivien"; but 
it is done in a way that reveals the essential hateful- 
ness of lubricity. 

There is no lack of warmth and bright colour in 
the poems which speak of true love ; but it is the glow 
of health instead of the hectic flush of disease; not 
the sickly hues that mask the surface of decay, but 
the livelier iris that the spring-time brings to the 
neck of the burnished dove. 

[ cviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

He does not fail to see the tragedies of love. There 
is the desperate ballad of "Oriana/' the sombre story 
of ''Aylmer's Field/' the picture of the forsaken Ma- 
riana in her moated grange, the pathetic idyll of 
Elaine who died for love of Lancelot. But the tragic 
element in these poems comes from the thwarting of 
love by circumstance, not from anything shameful or 
lawless in the passion itself. 

In "The Gardener's Daughter" the story of a pure 
and simple love is told with a clean rapture that 
seems to make earth and sky glow with new beauty, 
and with a reticence that speaks not of shallow feel- 
ing, but of reverent emotion, refusing to fling open 

the doors that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart. 

In The Princess, at the end, triumphant love rises 
to the height of prophecy, foretelling the harmony of 
manhood and womanhood in the world's great bri- 
dals : — 

^Dear, but let us type them now 
In our 07vn lives, and this proud ivatchword rest 
Of equal; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself , and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal: each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought^ 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow. 
The single pure and perfect animal. 
The two-cell' d heart beating, with one full stroke, 
Life: 

There are two of Tennyson's poems in which the 
subject of love is treated in very different ways, but 

[ cix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

with an equally close and evident relation to the 
sense of harmony and law which pervades his poetry. 
In one of them, it seems to me, the treatment is 
wonderfully successful ; the poet makes good his de- 
sign. In the other, I think, he comes a little short of 
it and leaves us unsatisfied and questioning. 

Maud is among the most purely impassioned pre- 
sentations of a love-story since Shakespeare's Romeo 
and Juliet. It not only tells in music the growth of a 
deep, strong, absorbing love, victorious over obsta- 
cles, but it shows the redeeming, ennobling power 
of such a passion, which leads the selfish hero out of 
his bitterness and narrowness and makes him able at 
the last to say. 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, 

While I am over the sea ! 

Let me and my passionate love go by. 

But speak to her all things holy and high. 

Whatever happen to me! 

Me and my harmful love go by; 

But come to her waking, find her asleep, 

Powers of the height. Powers of the deep, 

And comfort her tho I die. 

The tragedy of the poem is wrought not by love, but 
by another passion, lawless, discordant, uncontrolled, 
— the passion of proud hatred which brings about the 
quarrel with Maud's brother, the fatal duel, her death, 
the exile and madness of her lover. But the poem does 
not end in darkness, after all, for he awakes again to 
^^the better mind," and the love whose earthly con- 
summation his own folly has marred abides with him 
[ ex ] 



INTRODUCTION 

as the inspiration of a nobler life. The hero may be 
wrong in thinking that the Crimean War is to be a 
blessing to England and to the world. But he is surely 
right in saying. 

It is better tojightfor the good than to rail at the ill. 

In the Idylls of the King th^ve are two main threads 
of love running through the many-figured tapestry: 
Arthur's love for Guinevere, loyal, royal, but some- 
what cold and ineffectual: Guinevere's love for Lance- 
lot, disloyal and untrue, but warm and potent. It is 
the secret influence of this lawless passion, infecting 
the court, that breaks up the Round Table, and 
brings the kingdom to ruin and the King to his de- 
feat. In '^Guinevere" Tennyson departs from the story 
as it is told by Malory and introduces a scene entirely 
of his own invention : the last interview between Ar- 
thur, on his way to "that great battle in the west," 
and the fallen Queen, hiding in the convent at Almes- 
bury. It is a very noble scene ; noble in its setting in 
the moon-swathed pallor of the dead winter night; 
noble in its austere splendour of high diction and 
slow-moving verse, intense with solemn passion, bare 
to the heart; noble in its conception of the King's 
god-like forgiveness and of Guinevere's remorse and 
agony of shame, too late to countervail the harm that 
she had done on earth, though not too late to win the 
heavenly pardon. All that Arthur says of the evil 
wrought by unlawful and reckless love is true: — 

The children born of thee are sword and fire. 
Red ruiiif and the breaking up of laws. 

[ cxi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

All that he says of the crime that it would be to con- 
done the Queen's sin, for the sake of prudence and 
peace, reseating her in her place of light. 

The mockery of my people and their bane, 

is also true, though it seems at the moment a little 
too much like preaching. But there is one thing lack- 
ing, — one thing that is necessary to make the scene 
altogether convincing: some trace of human sympa- 
thy in Arthur's "vast pity," some consciousness of 
fault or failure on his part in not giving Guinevere all 
that her nature needed to guard her from the temp- 
tations of a more vivid though a lower passion. Splen- 
did as his words of pardon are, and piercingly pathetic 
as is that last farewell of love, still loyal though de- 
frauded; yet he does .lot quite win us. He is more 
god-like than it become- a man to be. He is too sure 
that he has never erred, too conscious that he is 
above weakness or reproach. We remember the lonely 
Lancelot in his desolate castle; we think of his cour- 
tesy, his devotion, his splendid courage, his winning 
tenderness, his ardour, the unwavering passion by 
force of which 

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Was it wonder that Guinevere, seeing the King ab- 
sorbed in affairs of state, remote, abstracted, inacces- 
sible, yielded to this nearer and more intimate joy.-* 
Sin it was: shame it was: that Tennyson makes us 
see clearly. But how could it have been otherwise? 
Was not the breaking of the law the revenge that 
[ cxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

nature herself took for a need unsatisfied, a harmony 
uncompleted and overlooked? This is the question 
that remains unanswered at the close of the Idylls of 
the King. And therefore I think the poem unsatisfac- 
tory in its treatment of love. 

But though Tennyson avoids this question, and lets 
Lancelot slip out of the poem at last without a word, 
disappearing like a shadow, he never falters in his 
allegiance to his main principle, — the supremacy of 
law and order. This indeed is the central theme of 
the epic: the right of soul to rule over sense and the 
ruin that comes when the relation is reversed. The 
poem ends tragically. But above the wreck of a great 
human design the poet sees the vision of a God who 
"fulfils Himself in many ways"; and after earth's 
confusions and defeats he seei^ the true-hearted King 
enthroned in the spiritual -^ity and the repentant 
Queen passing 

To where beyond these voices there is peace. 

6. A religious spirit pervades and marks the poetry 
of Tennyson. His view of the world and of human 
life — his view even of the smallest flower that blooms 
in the world — is illumined through and through by 
his faith in the Divine presence and goodness and 
power. This faith was not always serene and untrou- 
bled. It was won after a hard conflict with doubt and 
despondency, the traces of which may be seen in such 
poems as "The Two Voices" and "The Vision of Sin." 
But the issue was never really in danger. He was not 
a doubter seeking to win a faith. He was a believer 
defending himself against misgivings, fighting to hold 
[ cxiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

fast that which he felt to be essential to his life. The 
success of his struggle is recorded in In Memoriam^ 
which rises through suffering and perplexity to a lofty 
and unshaken trust in 

The trutlis that never can be proved, 
Until we close with all we loved 
And all 7ve flow from, soul in soul. 

It is not difficult to trace in his religious poems of 
this period the influence of the theology of the Rev. 
F. D. Maurice, who was one of his closest friends. 
The truths which Maurice presented most frequently, 
such as the immanence of God in nature, man's filial 
relation to Him, the reality of human brotherhood, 
the final victory of Love; the difficulties which he 
recognized in connection with these truths, such as 
the disorders and conflicts in nature, the apparent 
reckless waste of life, the sins and miseries of man- 
kind; and the way in which he met and overcame 
these difficulties, not by abstract reasoning, nor by a 
reference to authority, but by an appeal to the moral 
and spiritual necessities and intuitions of the human 
heart, — all these are presented in Tennyson's poetry. 

In later life there seems to have been a recurrence 
of questionings, shown in such poems as "Despair," 
"De Profundis," "The Ancient Sage," "Locksley 
Hall Sixty Years After," "Vastness," "By an Evolu- 
tionist." But this was not so much a conflict arising 
from within, as a protest against the tendencies of 
what he called "a terrible age of unfaith," an effort 
to maintain the rights of the spirit against scientific 
materialism. Later still the serene, triumphant mood 
[ cxiv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

of the proem to hi Memoriam was repeated in "Cross- 
ing the Bar/' "Silent Voices/' "Faith/' "The Death of 
the Duke of Clarence," and he reposed upon 

that Love which is and was 
My Father and my Brother and my God. 

In spite of his declared unwillingness to formulate 
his creed, arising partly from his conviction that 
humility was the right intellectual attitude in the 
presence of the great mysteries, and partly from the 
feeling that men would not understand him if he 
tried to put his belief into definite forms, it is by no 
means impossible to discover in his poetry certain 
clear and vivid visions of religious truths from which 
his poetic life drew strength and beauty. Three of 
these truths stand out distinct and dominant. 

The first is the real, personal, conscious life of God. 
"Take that away," said he, '^and you take away the 
backbone of the Universe." Tennyson is not a theo- 
logical poet like Milton or Cowper, nor even like 
Wordsworth or Browning. But hardly anything that 
he has written could have been w^ritten as it is, but 
for his underlying faith that God lives, and knows, 
and loves. This faith is clearly expressed in "The 
Higher Pantheism." It is not really pantheism at all, 
for while the natural world is regarded as "the Vision 
of Him who reigns," it is also the sign and symbol that 
the human soul is distinct from Him. All things re- 
veal Him, but man's sight and hearing are darkened 
so that he cannot understand the revelation. God is 
in all things: He is with all souls, but He is not to 
be identified with the human spirit, which has "power 

[ cxv ] 



INTRODUCTION 

to feel 'I am I.'" Fellowship with Him is to be sought 
and found in prayer. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit 

can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and 
feet. 

This confidence in the reality of prayer is expressed 
in many of Tennyson's deeper poems. We find it in 
"Enoch Arden/' in "St. Agnes' Eve/' in "The Pal- 
ace of Art," in In Memoriam, in "The Two Voices," 
in the "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Welling- 
ton," in "Doubt and Prayer," in "Lancelot and 
Elaine," in "Guinevere," in "Morte d' Arthur": — 

Pray for my soul. More things are fvrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. 

Tennyson's optimism was dependent upon his faith 
in a God to whom men can pray. It was not a matter 
of temperament, like Browning's optimism. Tenny- 
son inherited from his father a strain of gloomy blood, 
a tendency to despondency. He escaped from it only 
by learning to trust in the Divine wisdom and love : — 

That God which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
uind one far-off divine event. 

To which the 7vhole creation moves. 

The second truth which stands out in the poetry of 
Tennyson is the freedom of the human will. This is a 
mystery : — 

Our wills are ours we know not how. 

[ cxvi ] 



INTllODUCTION 

It is also an indubitable reality: — 

This main miracle, that thou art thou, 

With power on thine own act and on the world. 

[De Profundis.] 

The existence of such liberty of action in created 
beings implies a self-limitation on the part of God, 
but it is essential to moral responsibility and vital 
communion with the Divine. If man is only a "mag- 
netic mockery/' a "cunning cast in clay," he has no 
real life of his own, nothing to give back to God. The 
joy of effort and the glory of virtue depend upon free- 
dom. This is the meaning of Enid's Song, in "The 
Marriage of Geraint" : — 

For man is man and master of his fate. 

This is the central thought of that strong little poem 
called "Will": — 

well for him whose will is strong! 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long; 
He siffers, hid he cannot suffer 7vrong. 

This is the theme of the last lyric of In Memoriam : — 

living will that shall endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Florv thro our deeds and make them pure. 

The third truth which is vitally embodied in Tenny- 
son's poems is the assurance of Life after Death. This 
he believed in most deeply and uttered most passion- 
ately. He felt that the present life would be poor and 
pitiful, almost worthless and unendurable, without 
[ cxvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

the hope of Immortality. The rolling lines of "Vast- 
ness" are a long protest against the cold doctrine that 
death ends all. "Wages" is a swift utterance of the 
hope which inspires Virtue: — 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 

The second "Locksley Hall/' the Wellington Ode, 
"The May Queen/' "Guinevere/' "Enoch Arden/' 
"The Deserted House/' "The Poet's Song/' "Happy/' 
the lines on "The Death of the Duke of Clarence/' 
" Silent Voices," — it is not possible to enumerate the 
poems in which the clear faith in a future life finds 
expression. In Memoriam is altogether filled and glori- 
fied with the passion of Immortality : not a vague and 
impersonal survival in other forms, but a continuance 
of individual life beyond the grave : — 

Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside, 
And I shall knotv him ivhen we meet. 

It is a vain and idle thing for men who are them- 
selves indifferent to the spiritual aspects of life, or 
perhaps hostile and contemptuous toward a religious 
view of the universe, to declare that there is no place 
in poetry for such subjects, and to sneer at every poem 
in which they appear as "si disguised sermon." No 
doubt there are many alleged poems dealing with re- 
ligion which deserve no better name : versified exposi- 
tions of theological dogma: creeds in metre: moral 
admonitions tagged with rhyme; a weariness to the 
flesh. But so there are alleged poems which deal with 
the facts of the visible world and of human history 

[ cxviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

in the same dreary, sapless manner: catalogues of mis- 
cellaneous trifles, records of unilluminating experiences, 
•confused impressions of the insignificant, and unmelodi- 
ous rhapsodies on subjects as empty as an old tin-can 
in a vacant city lot. 

It is not the presence of religion that spoils reli- 
gious verse. It is the absence of poetry. Poetry is vision. 
Poetry is music. Poetry is an overflow of wonder and 
joy, pity and love. Truths which lie in the spiritual 
realm have as much power to stir the heart to this 
overflow as truths which lie in the physical realm. 
There is an imaginative vision of the meaning of re- 
ligious truths — a swift flashing of their significance 
upon the inward eye, a sudden thrilling of their music 
through the inward ear — which is as full of beauty 
and wonder, as potent to " surprise us by a fine excess," 
as any possible human experience. It is poetic in the 
very highest sense of the word. There may be poetry, 
and very admirable poetry, without it. But the poet 
who never sees it, nor sings of it, in whose verse there 
is no ray of light, no note of music, from beyond the 
range of the five senses, has never reached the heights 
nor sounded the depths of human nature. 

The influence of Tennyson's poetry in revealing the 
reality and beauty of three great religious beliefs — • 
the existence of the Divine Spirit who is our Father, 
the freedom of the human will, and the personal life 
after death — was deep, far-reaching, and potent. He 
stood among the doubts and conflicts of the last cen- 
tury as a witness for the things that are invisible and 
eternal: the things that men may forget if they will, 
but if they forget them their hearts wither, and the 
[ cxix ] 



INTRODUCTION 

springs of inspiration run dry. His rich and musical 
verse brought a message of new cheer and courage to 
the young men of that questioning age who were fain 
to defend their spiritual heritage against the invasions 
of a hard and fierce materialism. In the vital conflict 
for the enlargement of faith to embrace the real dis- 
coveries of science, he stood forth as a leader. In the 
great silent reaction from the solitude of a consist- 
ent skepticism, his voice was a clear-toned bell call- 
ing the unwilling exiles of belief to turn again and 
follow the guidance of the Spirit. No new arguments 
were his. But the sweetness of a poet's persuasion, the 
splendour of high truths embodied in a poet's imagi- 
nation, the convincing beauty of noble beliefs set forth 
in clear dream and solemn vision, — these were the 
powers that he employed. 

In using them he served not only his own day and 
generation but ours and those that are to come. 



[ cxx ] 



I 

MELODIES AND PICTURES 



CLARIBEL 

A MELODY 

I 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die. 
Letting the rose-leaves fall: 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth. 
Thick-leaved^ ambrosial. 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony. 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

II 
At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone: 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone: 
At midnight the moon cometh. 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth. 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth. 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumbrous w^ave outwelleth. 

The babbling runnel crispeth. 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 



[3] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

SONG 

I 
A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 
In the walks; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers: 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close. 

As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves. 

And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath. 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;. 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



[4 J 



THE THROSTLE 



THE THROSTLE 



'Summer is coming, summer is coming. 

I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again/ 

Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 
'New, new, new, new!' Is it then so new 

That you should carol so madly? 

'Love again, song again, nest again, young again/ 

Never a prophet so crazy! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend. 

See, there is hardly a daisy. 

'Here again, here, here, here, happy year!* 

O warble unchidden, unbidden! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear. 

And all the winters are hidden. 



FAR— FAR— AWAY 

(for music) 

What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew 
As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue. 
Far — far — away ? 

What sound was dearest in his native dells? 
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells 
Far — far — away. 

[5] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy. 
Thro' those three words would haunt him when a boy, 
Far — far — away ? 

A whisper from his dawn of life? a breath 
From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death 
Far — far — away ? 

Far, far, how far? from o'er the gates of Birth, 
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth. 
Far — far — away ? 

What charm in words, a charm no words could give? 
O dying words, can Music make you live 
Far — far — away ? 



"MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH 

Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow: 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light. 

And move me to my marriage-morn, 
And round again to happy night. 

[ 6 ] 



THE SNOWDROP 

THE SNOWDROP 

ManYj many welcomes 
February fair-maid. 
Ever as of old time. 
Solitary firstling. 
Coming in the cold time. 
Prophet of the gay time. 
Prophet of the May time. 
Prophet of the roses. 
Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid! 



A FAREWELL 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 
Thy tribute wave deliver: 

No more by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet, then a river: 
No where by thee my steps shall be. 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee. 
For ever and for ever. 

[7] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

A thousand suns will stream on thee 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 



SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS 



The Little Grave 

As thro' the land at eve we went. 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why. 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears. 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

^^ Sweet and low'''' 

Sweet and low, sweet and low. 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea! 
[8] 



SONGS FllOM THE PRINCESS 

Over the rolling waters go. 

Come from the dying moon, and blow. 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest. 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon: 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 



The Bugle Song 

The splendour falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, Q hear! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
They faint on hill or field or river: 
[ 9 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



" Tear.% idle tears''' 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 
[ 10 ] 



SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS 

The Swallow'^s Message 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

O tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O were I thou that she might take me in. 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love. 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is flown: 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O tell her, brief is life but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 
[ 11 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 



The Battle 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands: 
A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



^' Sweet my child, I live for thee'' 

Home they brought her warrior dead: 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
'She must weep or she will die.' 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him w^orthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years. 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears- 
' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' 

[ 12 ] 



THE SONG OF THE BROOK 

''Ash me no more^'' 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 

sliape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: 
I strove against the stream and all in vain: 
Let the great river take me to the main: 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



SONGS FROM OTHER POEMS 

The Song of the Brook 
(From The Brook) 

I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally. 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 
[ 13 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 
Or slip between the ridges. 

By twenty thorps, a little town. 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways. 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel 
[ 14 ] 



CRADLE-SONG 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow- 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

Cradle-Song' 
(From Sea Dreams) 

What does little birdie say 

In her nest at peep of day.^* 

[ 15 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Let me fly, says little birdie. 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer. 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer. 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie. 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

Mother-Song 
(From Romney's Remorse) 

Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat! 
Beat upon mine! you are mine, my sweet! 
All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet. 

My sweet. 

Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss! 
For I give you this, and I give you this! 
And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a kiss! 

Sleep! 

Father and Mother will watch you grow. 
And gather the roses whenever they blow. 
And find the white heather wherever you go. 

My sweet. 
[ 16 ] 



ENIDS SONG 

Eriicfs Song 

(From The Marriage of Geraint) 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ; 
Turn thy w ild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

Vivieii's Song 

(From Merlin and Vivien) 

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

It is the little rift within the lute. 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

The little rift within the lover's lute 
Or little pitted speck in garner' d fruit. 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 
[ 17 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

It is not worth the keeping: let it go: 
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all. 



Elaine's Song 
(From Lancelot and Elaine) 

Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be; 
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die. 



Milking-Song 
(From Queen Mary, Act III, Scene 5) 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now! 
Kiss me would you? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 
[ 18] 



THE QUEENS SONG 

Daisies grow again. 
Kingcups blow again. 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well I vow; 
CufF him could I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again. 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now; 
Help it can I? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Ringdoves coo again. 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow! 



The QueerCs Smig 

(From Queen Mary, Act V, Scene 2) 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing! 
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing: 
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world 
is nothing — 

Low, lute, low! 
Love will hover round the flowers when they first 

awaken ; 
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken; 
[ 19] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Low, my lute ! oh low, my lute ! we fade and are for- 
saken — 

Low, dear lute, low ! 



Duet of Henry and Rosamund 
(From Becket, Act II, Scene 1) 

1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine 

overhead ? 

2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the 

cliffs of the land. 

1. Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the 

deep from the strand. 
One coming up with a song in the flush of the glim- 
mering red? 

2. Love that is born of the deep coming up with the 

sun from the sea. 

1. Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life 

shall have fled.^ 

2. Nay, let us welcome him. Love that can lift up a 

life from the dead. 

1. Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us be, 

let us be. 

2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in it 

— he, it is he. 
Love that is born of the deep coming up with the 
sun from the sea. 



[20] 



ODE TO MEMORY 
ODE TO MEMORY 

ADDRESSED TO 

I 

Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present; oh, haste. 

Visit my low desire! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me! 
I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou camest of late. 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day; but robed in soften'd light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd. 

When she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits. 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 

Ill 
Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, 
And with the evening cloud, 
[ 21 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 

Never grow sere, 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 

Because they are the earliest of the year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and the cope 

Of the half-attain' d futurity, 

Tho' deep not fathomless. 
Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



IV 

Come forth, I charge thee, arise. 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
[ 22] 



ODE TO MEMORY 

Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried ; 
Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand. 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. 

In every elbow and turn. 
The filter d tribute of the rough woodland, 

Ol hither lead thy feet! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds. 

Upon the ridged wolds. 
When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led. 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers. 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
[ 23] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

In setting round thy first experiment 

With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 

Upon the storied walls; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee. 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labour of thine early days : 
No matter what the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh. 
Or even a lowly cottage whence w^e see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh. 
Where from the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity. 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose. 
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender: 
Whither in after life retired 

. [ 24 ] 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

From brawling storms. 

From weary wind. 

With youthful fancy re-inspired. 

We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind. 
And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone. 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne! 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say: 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way; 
'It is no wonder,' said the lords, 

'She is more beautiful than day.' 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 
She in her poor attire was seen: 

One praised her ankles, one her eyes. 
One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 

[ 25] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

So sweet a face, such angel grace. 
In all that land had never been: 

Cophetua sware a royal oath: 

'This beggar maid shall be my queen!' 



RECOLLECTIONS 
OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 

In the silken sail of infancy. 

The tide of time flow'd back with me. 

The forward-flowing tide of time; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne. 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
High -walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side: 

In sooth it was a goodly time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
[ 26] 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 

The outlet, did I turn away 

The boat-head down a broad canal 

From the main river sluiced, where all 

The sloping of the moon-lit sward 

Was damask-work, and deep inlay 

Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 

Adown to where the water slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm. 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 

Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
[ 27] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-colour'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large. 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odour in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off*, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung. 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight. 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love. 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 
Apart from place, withholding time. 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind: 
[ 28] 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 

A sudden splendour from behind 

Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green. 

And, flowing rapidly between 

Their interspaces, counterchanged 

The level lake with diamond-plots 

Of dark and bright. A lovely time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead. 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under-flame: 
So, leaping lightly from the boat. 
With silver anchor left afloat. 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank. 

Entranced with that place and time. 

So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound. 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound. 
And deep myrrh -thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time. 

In honour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
[ 29] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors. 
Flung inward over spangled floors. 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream' d 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony. 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; 
[ SO ] 



THE DAISY 

The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop 'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride. 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The Good Haroun Alraschid. 



THE DAISY 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH 

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine. 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

[ 31 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

To meet the sun and sunny waters. 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove. 
Yet present in his natal grove. 

Now watching high on mountain cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove. 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most. 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast; 

But distant colour, happy hamlet, 
A moulder' d citadel on the coast. 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 
[ 32] 



THE DAISY 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold. 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours; 

What drives about the fresh Casein^, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete. 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city glitter' d. 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch -pillars on the lion resting. 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon' d fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

[ 33] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

I stood among the silent statues. 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly -flush' d, how phantom-fair. 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 

To Como; shower and storm and blast 

Had blown the lake beyond his limit. 
And all was flooded; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray. 
And in my head, for half the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way. 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept. 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, w^here we slept; 

Or hardly slept, but watch' d awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake. 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more? we took our last adieu. 
And up the snowy Splugen drew. 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck' d a daisy, I gave it you. 
[84] 



EARLY SPRING 

It told of England then to me. 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold: 

Yet here to-night in this dark city. 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry. 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by: 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain. 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me. 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



EARLY SPRING 

I 
Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new. 
And domes the red-plow' d hills 
[ 35] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills*. 
The throstles too. 



Opens a door in Heaven; 

From skies of glass 
A Jacob's ladder falls 

On greening grass. 
And o'er the mountain- walls 

Young angels pass. 

Ill 
Before them fleets the shower. 

And burst the buds. 
And shine the level lands. 

And flash the floods; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro' the woods, 

IV 

The woods with living airs 

How softly fann'd. 
Light airs from where the deep. 

All down the sand, 
Is breathing in his sleep, 

Heard by the land. 

V 

O follow, leaping blood. 
The season's lure! 
[ 86] 



EARLY SPRING 

O heart, look down and up 

Serene, secure. 
Warm as the crocus cup. 

Like snowdrops, pure! 

VI 

Past, Future gUmpse and fade 
Thro' some sUght spell, 

A gleam from yonder vale. 
Some far blue fell. 

And sympathies, how frail. 
In sound and smell! 

VII 

Till at thy chuckled note, 

Thou twinkling bird. 
The fairy fancies range, 

And, lightly stirr'd. 
Ring little bells of change 

From word to word. 

VIII 

For now the Heavenly Power 
Makes all things new, 

And thaws the cold, and fills 
The flower with dew; 

The blackbirds have their wills, 
The poets too. 



[37] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

THE DYING SWAN 

I 
The plain was grassy, wild and bare. 
Wide, wild, and open to the air. 
Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan. 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on. 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 

II 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 

And white against the cold-white sky. 

Shone out their crowning snows. 
One willow over the river wept. 

And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 

Above in the wind was the swallow. 
Chasing itself at its own wild will. 
And far thro' the marish green and still 
The tangled water-courses slept. 

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 

Ill 
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear; 
[38] 



THE EAGLE 

And floating about the under-sky, 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice. 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar. 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. 

And the willow-branches hoar and dank. 

And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 

And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among. 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 



THE EAGLE 

FRAGMENT 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 
[ 89] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

THE OAK 

Live thy Life, 

Young and old. 
Like yon oak. 
Bright in spring. 
Living gold; 

Summer-rich 
Then; and then 

Autumn-changed, 

Soberer-hued 
Gold again. 

All his leaves 

Fall'n at length. 
Look, he stands. 
Trunk and bough. 
Naked strength. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw. 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam. 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold; and while they mused 
Whispering to each other half in fear. 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no 
more. 

[ 40] 



THE SEA-FAIRIES 

Whither away from the high green field, and the 

happy blossoming shore? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls: 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea: 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea: 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails. 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails; 
We will sing to you all the day: 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
For here are the blissful downs and dales. 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; 
Hither, come hither and see; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave. 
And sweet is the colour of cove and cave. 
And sweet shall your welcome be: 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords. 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 

[41 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly 
no more. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

'Courage!' he said, and pointed toward the land, 
'This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.' 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke. 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops. 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

[ 42 ] 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

Border' d with palm^ and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale; 

A land where all things always seem'd the same! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them. 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, ^We will return no more;' 
And all at once they sang, ^Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam.* 

CHORIC SONG 

I 
There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass. 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
[43] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 

Music that genther on the spirit lies. 

Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful 

skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 

II 
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness. 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All things have rest: why should we toil alone. 
We only toil, who are the first of things. 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown: 
Nor ever fold our wings. 
And cease from wanderings. 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; 
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 
'There is no joy but calm!' 
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 

Ill 
Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care. 
Sun-steep' d at noon, and in the moon 
[ 44] 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days. 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labour be.'* 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last.? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil.'' Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 
In silence; ripen, fall and cease: 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful 
ease. 

V 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
[ 45] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech; 

Eating the Lotos day by day. 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory. 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

VI 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears: but all hath sufFer'd change: 
For surely now our household hearths are cold: 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile: 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death. 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 
Long labour unto aged breath, 
[ 46] 



THE LOTOIS-EATEliS 

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

VII 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly. 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelid still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus- wreath divine! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the 
pine. 

VIII 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek: 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos- 
dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Roll'd to starboard, roU'd to larboard, when the surge 

was seething free. 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam- 
fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 
[47] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are 
hurl'd 

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 
lightly curl'd 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleam- 
ing world: 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands. 

Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring 
deeps and fiery sands. 

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, 
and praying hands. 

But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful 
song 

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of 
wrong. 

Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; 

Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the 
soil, 

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil. 

Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; 

Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whis- 
per d — down in hell 

Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell. 

Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the 
shore 

Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave 
and oar; 

Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 



[ 48] 



ISABEL 

ISABEL 
I 
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity. 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread. 
Madonna-wise on either side her head; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity. 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head. 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead. 

II 

The intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime; a prudence to withhold; 

The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried. 

Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Thro* all the outworks of suspicious pride; 
A courage to endure and to obey; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
[ 49] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Crown' d Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 

Ill 
The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swifter movement and in purer light 

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother: 
A leaning and upbearing parasite. 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite 
With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
Shadow forth thee: — the world hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee. 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA 

•Mariana in the moated grange.' 

Measure for Measure 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the gable-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: 

Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ^My life is dreary, 
[ 50] 



MARIANA 

He Cometh not/ she said; 

She said, ^I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!' 

Her tears fell with the dews at even; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven. 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by. 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, ^The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not,' she said; 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!' 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: 
The cock sung out an hour ere light: 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her: without hope of change. 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ^The day is dreary. 

He cometh not,' she said; 

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!' 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 
[ 51 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

And o'er it many, round aiid small. 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway. 

All silver-green with gnarled bark: 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, *^My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not,' she said; 

She said, ^I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!' 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were up and away. 
In the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, ^The night is dreaiy, 

He Cometh not,' she said; 

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!' 

All day within the dreamy house. 
The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, 

Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 

Old voices called her from without. 
[ 52 ] 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

She only said, 'My life is dreary. 
He Cometh not/ she said; 

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!' 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
Athwart the chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his western bower. 
Then, said she, '1 am very dreary, 

He will not come,' she said; 

She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary. 

Oh God, that I were dead ! ' 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
* The Legend of Good Women; long ago 

Sung by the morning-star of song, who made 
His music heard below; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 
Held me above the subject, as strong gales 
[ 53 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars. 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs; 

And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 

Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; 

Lances in ambush set; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts. 
And ever climbing higher; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates. 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes. 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates. 
And hush'd seraglios. 

[54] 



A DllEAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand. 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. 

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak. 

As when a great thought strikes along the brain. 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 

A cavalier from off* his saddle-bow. 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town; 

And then, I know not how. 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep 

Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 
In an old wood: fresh- wash' d in coolest dew 

The maiden splendours of the morning star 
Shook in the stedfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest 
green. 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, 
[ 55 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Half-fair n across the threshold of the sun. 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air. 

Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 

Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine tum'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 

And at the root thro' lush green grasses bum'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under- tone 

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime, 

'Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own. 
Until the end of time.' 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. 
And most divinely fair. 

[ 56 ] 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 
Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes. 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

'I had great beauty: ask thou not my name: 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
I brought calamity.' 

'No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died/ 

I answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. 
To her full height her stately stature draws; 

'My youth,' she said, 'was blasted with a curse: 
This woman was the cause. 

'I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 
Which men call'd Aulis in those iron years: 

My father held his hand upon his face; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

'Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs 

As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, 

Waiting to see me die. 

'The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; 

The crowds, the temples, waver' d, and the shore; 

[ 57 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

The bright death quiver' d at the victim's throat; 
Touch'd; and I knew no more.' 

Whereto the other with a downward brow: 
'I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, 

Whirl' d by the wind, had roU'd me deep below, 
Then when I left my home.' 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: 

Sudden I heard a voice that cried, ^Come here. 
That I may look on thee.' 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes. 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: 
'I govern' d men by change, and so I sway'd 

All moods. 'T is long since I have seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

'The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humour ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood: 
That makes my only woe. 

'Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye 

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend. 
Where is Mark Antony? 

[ 58] 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

'The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck: we sat as God by God: 

The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

'We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 
Lamps which out-burn' d Canopus. O my life 

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

'And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. 

Contented there to die! 

'And there he died: and when I heard my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear 

Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame. 
What else was left? look here!' 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, 
Showing the aspick's bite.) 

'I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name for ever! — lying robed and crown'd. 
Worthy a Roman spouse.' 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 

[59] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for delight ; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light 

The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn, 

And singing clearer than the crested bird 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

'The torrent brooks of hallo w'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

'The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine.' 

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

[ 60] 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow 

Of music left the Hps of her that died 
To save her father's vow; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 
A maiden pure ; as when she went along 

From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light. 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth: ^Heaven heads the count of 
crimes 

With that wild oath.' She render'd answer high: 
'Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times 

I would be born and die. 

'Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. 

Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

'My God, my land, my father — these did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 

Lower' d softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

'And I went mourning, "No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers" — emptied of all joy. 
Leaving the dance and song, 

'Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 
Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

[ 61 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

^The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darken' d glen, 

'Saw God divide the night with flying flame. 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

'When the next moon was roll'd into the sky. 
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire! 

'It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

'Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood: 
' Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 
[ 62] 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 

As one that from a casement leans his head. 

When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly. 
And the old year is dead. 

' Alas ! alas ! ' a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur'd beside me: 'Turn and look on me: 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair. 
If what I was I be. 

'Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor! 

O me, that I should ever see the light! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night.' 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust: 
To whom the Egyptian: 'Oh, you tamely died! 

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side.' 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark. 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, 
[ 63] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labours longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest. 
Desiring what is mingled with past years. 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By sighs or groans or tears; 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art. 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE 

A FRAGMENT 

Like souls that balance joy and pain. 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapour everywhere 
[ 64 ] 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE 

Blue isles of heaven laugh' d between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen. 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 
From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song; 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong; 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer. 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring; 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore. 
Buckled with golden clasps before; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net. 

Now by some tinkling rivulet. 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set: 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
[ 65 ] 



MELODIES AND PICTURES 

When all the glimmering moorland rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 

As fast she fled thro' sun and shade. 
The happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



[66] 



II 

BALLADS, IDYLS 
AND CHARACTER-PIECES 



BALLADS 
THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

PART I 

On either side the river He 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil' d 
Slide the heavy barges trail' d 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand.'' 
[ 69 ] 



BALLADS 

Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land. 
The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower' d Camelot: 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers ^'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott.' 

PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls, 
[70] 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

And there the surly village-churls. 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 
Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair' d page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot: 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
* I am half sick of shadows,' said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
[ 71 ] 



BALLADS 

To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 
Beside remote Shalott, 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night. 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
[72] 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

'Tirra lirra/ by the river 
Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side; 
'The curse is come upon me,' cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART IV 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
[ 78] 



BALLADS 

The broad stream bore her far away. 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot: 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken' d wholly, 

Turn'd to tower' d Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by. 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 
[ 74] 



THE MAY QUEEN 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross' d themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, ^She has a lovely face: 
God in his mercy lend her grace. 

The Lady of Shalott.' 



THE MAY QUEEN 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 
New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merri- 
est day; 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

There 's many a black black eye, they say, but none 
so bright as mine ; 

There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate and Caro- 
line : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 

So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never 
wake, 

[75] 



BALLADS 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 
break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and gar- 
lands gay. 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
yesterday. 

But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of 

light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they 

say, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never 

be: 
They say his heart is breaking, mother— ^ what is that 

to me? 
There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer 

day. 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

[ 76] 



THE MAY QUEEN 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 
And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made the 

Queen; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far 

away, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy 

bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 
meadow-grass. 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as 
they pass ; 

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live- 
long day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance 

and play. 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

[ 77 ] 



BALLADS 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 

New-year: 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest 

day. 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 



If you 're waking call me early, call me early, mother 

dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no 

more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 

peace of mind ; 
And the New-year 's coming up, mother, but I shall 

never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry 

day; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel 

copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 



THE MAY QUEEN 

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on 

the pane: 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on 

high: 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm- 
tree. 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer 
o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 
grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of 

mine. 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill 

shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the 

hill, 
\Vhen you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world 

is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 

waning light 
You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at 

night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow 

cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush 

in the pool. 

[ 79 ] 



BALLADS 

You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw- 
thorn shade, 

And you '11 come somethnes and see me where I am 
lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when 
you pass. 

With your feet above my head in the long and plea- 
sant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 forgive me 

now; 
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere 

I go; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another 

child. 

If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting- 
place ; 

Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your 
face ; 

Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall barken what you say. 

And be often, often with you when you think I 'm 
far away. 

Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight 
for evermore. 

And you see me carried out from the threshold of the 
door; 

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow- 
ing green: 

She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. 
[ 80 ] 



THE MAY QUEEN 

She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: 
I^et her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden 

more: 
But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rosebush 

that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 

Goodnight, sweet mother: call me before the day is 
born. 

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
year, 

So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
dear. 

CONCLUSION 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the 

lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the 

year! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's 

here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 

skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 

cannot rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 

that blow. 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to 

go. 

C 81 ] 



BALLADS 

It seem'd so hard at first^ mother, to leave the blessed 

sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will 

be done! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words 

of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver 

hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 

me there! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my 

bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the 

sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there 's One will 

let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could 

be. 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for 

me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
watch beat, 

There came a sweeter token when the night and morn- 
ing meet: 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in 
mine. 

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 
[ 82 ] 



THE MAY QUEEN 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was 

over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my 

soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt 

resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen' d in my bed. 
And then did something speak to me — I know not 

what was said; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my 

mind. 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, ^It 's not for them: 
it 's mine.' 

And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a 
sign. 

And once again it came, and close beside the window- 
bars. 

Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among 
the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have 
to go. 

[83] 



BALLADS 

And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed 
away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to 

fret; 
There 's many a worthier than I, would make him 

happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his 

wife; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire 

of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a 

glow; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I 

know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light 

may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day 

is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the 

sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan.'' why make we 

such ado? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie 
come — 

[ 84] 



IN THE CHILDREN S HOSPITAL 

t 

To lie within the Ught of God, as I He upon your 

breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubHng, and the weary 

are at rest. 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 

EMMIE 

I 

Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen 

him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come 

in at the door. 
Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other 

lands — ■ 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless 

hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said 

too of him 
He was happier using the knife than in trying to save 

the limb. 
And that I can well believe, for he look'd so coarse 

and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who would break 

their jests on the dead. 
And mangle the living dog that had loved him and 

fawn'd at his knee — 
Drench' d with the hellish oorali — that ever such things 

should be! 

[85 ] 



BALLADS 

II 

Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children 
would die 

But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the com- 
forting eye — 

Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out 
of its place — 

Caught in a mill and crush' d — it was all but a hope- 
less case: 

And he handled him gently enough; but his voice 
and his face were not kind, 

And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and 
made up his mind. 

And he said to me roughly ^The lad will need little 
more of your care.' 

'All the more need,' I told him, Ho seek the Lord 
Jesus in prayer; 

They are all his children here, and I pray for them all 
as my own:' 

But he turn'd to me, ^Ay, good woman, can prayer set 
a broken bone?' 

Then he mutter' d half to himself, but I know that I 
heard him say 

'All very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had his 
day,' 

III 
Had? has it come? It has only dawn'd. It will come 

by and by. 
O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the 
world were a lie? 

[ 86 ] 



IN THE children's HOSPITAL 

How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome 

smells of disease 
But that He said 'Ye do it to me, when ye do it to 

these'? 

IV 

So he went. And we past to this ward where the 

younger children are laid : 
Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek 

little maid; 
Empty you see just now! We have lost her who loved 

her so, much — 
Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to 

the touch; 
Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to 

tears. 
Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child 

of her years — 
Nay, you remember our Emmie ; you used to send her 

the flowers; 
How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 

'em hours after hours! 
They that can wander at will where the works of the 

Lord are reveal'd 
Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out 

of the field ; 
Flowers to these 'spirits in prison' are all they can 

know of the spring. 
They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of 

an Angel's wing; 
And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin 

hands crost on her breast — 
[ 87 ] 



BALLADS 

Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought 

her at rest. 
Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said ' Poor little 

dear. 
Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she '11 never live thro' 

it, I fear.' 

V 

I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as far as the head 

of the stair, 
Then I re turn' d to the ward; the child didn't see I 

was there. 

VI 

Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so 

vext! 
Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her cot 

to the next, 
'He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what 

shall I do.?' 
Annie consider' d. 'If I,' said the wise little Annie, 'was 

you, 
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, 

Emmie, you see. 
It's all in the picture there: "Little children should 

come to me."' 
(Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it 

always can please 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about 

his knees.) 
'Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, 'but then if I call to the 

Lord, 

[ 88 ] 



IN THE CHILDREN S HOSPITAL 

How should he know that it 's me? such a lot of beds 

in the ward!' 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd and 

said: 
^ Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em 

outside on the bed — 
The Lord has so much to see to! but, Emmie, you tell 

it him plain. 
It 's the little girl with her arms lying out on the 

counterpane.' 

VII 

I had sat three nights by the child — I could not watch 

her for four — 
My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no 

more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it 

never would pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail 

on the glass. 
And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost 

about. 
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the 

darkness without; 
My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dread- 
ful knife 
And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would 

escape with her life ; 
Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood 

by me and smiled. 
And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see 

to the child. 

[ 89] 



BALLADS 

VIII 

He had brought his ghastly tools: we believed her 

asleep again — 
Her dear^ long, lean, little arms lying out on the 

counterpane ; 
Say that His day is done! Ah why should we care 

what they say? 
The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie 

had past away. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

I 
Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
'Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!' he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



'Forward, the Light Brigade!* 
Was there a man dismay' d? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder' d: 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die: 
[ 90 ] 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



Ill 
Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley' d and thunder' d; 
Storm' d at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

IV 

Flash' d all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turned in air 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter' d and sunder' d. 
Then they rode back, but not^ 

Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
C 91 ] 



BALLADS 

Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 
Left of six hundred. 

VI 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made' 

All the world wonder' d. 
Honour the charge they made ! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 
AT BALACLAVA 

October 25, 1854 

I 

The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 
Brigade ! 

Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, 

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and 
stay'd; 

For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were rid- 
ing by 

When the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky; 
[ 92] 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 

And he call'd 'Left wheel into line ! ' and they wheel'd 

and obey'd. 
Then he look'd at the host that had halted he knew 

not why. 
And he turn'd half round, and he bade his trumpeter 

sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his 

blade 
To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never 

die — 
'Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 
Follow'd the Heavy Brigade. 



II 

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might 

of the fight! 
Thousands of horsemen had gather'd there on the 

height. 
With a wing push'd out to the left and a wing to the 

right. 
And who shall escape if they close? but he dash'd up 

alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men, 
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then; 
All in a moment follow'd with force 
Three that were next in their fiery course. 
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, 
Foughtfortheirlivesin the narrow gap they had made — 
Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade. 
[ 93 ] 



BALLADS 

III 

Fell like a cannonshot, 
Burst like a thunderbolt, 
Crash'd like a hurricane. 
Broke thro' the mass from below. 
Drove thro' the midst of the foe. 
Plunged up and down, to and fro. 
Rode flashing blow upon blow. 
Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of light! 
And some of us, all in amaze. 
Who were held for a while from the fight. 
And were only standing at gaze, 
W^hen the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the right. 
And roll'd them around like a cloud, — 
O mad for the charge and the battle were we. 
When our own good redcoats sank from sight. 
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, 
And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd, 
'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's 
Brigade ! * 

IV 

'Lost one and all' were the words 
Mutter'd in our dismay; 
But they rode like Victors and Lords 
Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Russian hordes, . 
They rode, or they stood at bay — 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
C 94] 



THE llEVENGE 

Down with the bridle-hand drew 

The foe from the saddle and threw 

Underfoot there in the fray — 

Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 

In the wave of a stormy day ; 

Till suddenly shock upon shock 

Stagger d the mass from without, 

Drove it in wild disarray, 

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout. 

And the foeman surged, and waver' d, and reel'd 

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field. 

And over the brow and away. 



Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made ! 
Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade ! 



THE REVENGE 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 

I 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay. 

And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from 
far away: 

'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty- 
three ! ' 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: *'Fore God I am 
no coward; 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of 
gear, 

[95] 



BALLADS 

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
quick. 

We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty- 
three .?>' 

II 
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no 

coward; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
But I 've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.* 



Ill 
So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that 

day. 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from 

the land 
Very carefully and slow. 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 

left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the 

Lord. 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and 
to fight, 

[ 96] 



THE llEVENGE 

And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard 

came in sight. 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 

bow. 
^ Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now. 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There '11 be little of us left by the time this sun be 

set.' 
And Sir Richard said again: 'We be all good English 

men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 

devil. 
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' 

v 

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 

hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 

foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 

sick below; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 

were seen. 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 

between. 

VI 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their 

decks and laugh'd. 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 

little craft 

[ 07 ] 



BALLADS 

Running on and on, till delay' d 

By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hun- 
dred tons. 

And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 
tiers of guns. 

Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 



VII 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day. 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 
board lay. 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 



VIII 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 

and went 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill 

content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought 

us hand to hand. 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 

musqueteers. 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 

shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 

[98] 



THE REVENGE 

IX 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 

over the summer sea. 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 

the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 

galleons came. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
thunder and flame; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 

her dead and her shame. 
For some were sunk and many were shatter' d, and so 

could fight us no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the 

world before.'' 



For he said * Fight on! fight on!' 

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 

night was gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and 

the head. 
And he said ^ Fight on! fight on!' 

XI 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 
over the summer sea, 

[ 99] 



BALLADS 

And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 

all in a ring; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd 

that we still could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain. 
But in perilous plight w ere we. 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 

strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of 

them stark and cold. 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder 

was all of it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 

side; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again! 
We have won great glory, my men! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore. 
We die — does it matter when? 
Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink her, split her 

in twain! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain ! ' 

And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made 
reply: 

[ 100 ] 



THE REVENGE 

^We have children, we have wives, 

And the Lord hath spared our Uves. 

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to 

let us go; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 

foe. 

XIII 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 

him then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 

caught at last. 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly 

foreign grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
'I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant 

man and true; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 

and true. 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English 

few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they 

knew. 
But they sank his body with honour down into the 

deep, 

[ *01 ] 



BALLADS 

And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien 

crew, 
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 

own: 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 

from sleep. 
And the water began to heave and the weather to 

moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
quake grew. 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 

masts and their flags. 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shat- 

ter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the 

island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



1192 3 



ENGLISH IDYLS 
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 

OR, THE PICTURES 

This morning is the morning of the day. 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the gardener's daughter; I and he. 
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete 
Portion' d in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
lie, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little; — Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love. 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life.'' but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
'When will^oM paint like this?' and I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
^'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
[ 103] 



IDYLS 

Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of March.* 
And Juliet answer' d laughing, ^Go and see 
The gardener's daughter: trust me, after that. 
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece.' 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar. 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown' d with the minster- to wars. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder' d kine. 
And all about the large lime feathers low. 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself. 
Grew, seldom seen; not less among us lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the gardener's daughter.? Where was he. 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in grief. 
That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, 
[ 104] 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER 

So gross to express delight, in praise of her 

Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 

And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart. 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes. 
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds. 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about ray senses and my soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream 
Dream' d by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 

And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge. 
And May with me from head to heel. And now. 
As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, 
[ 10-5 ] 



;?K 



IDYLS 

And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood. 

Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, 

And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 

Came voices of the well-contented doves. 

The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, 

But shook his song together as he near'd 

His happy home, the ground. To left and right. 

The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; 

The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; 

The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale 

Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, 
'Hear how the bushes echo! by my life. 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song.'^ 
Or have they any sense of why they sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens for what they 

have?' 
And I made answer, 'Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only love. 
That only love were cause enough for praise.' 

Lightly he laugh' d, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd. 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
[ 106 ] 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER 

The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses glanced, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter' d silver lights. 

^Eustace/ I said, Hhis wonder keeps the house.' 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, ^Look! look!' Before he ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose. 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught. 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood, 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down. 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground! 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom. 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips. 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade. 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
[ 107 ] 



IDYLS 

Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd 
Into the world without; till close at hand. 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent, 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her: 

'Ah, one rose. 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd. 
Were worth a hundred kisses press' d on lips 
Less exquisite than thine.' 

She look'd: but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that. 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 

So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
'Now,' said he, 'will you climb the top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet.'' you, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all.' 

[ 108 ] 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER 

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom. 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er. 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchman peal 
The sliding season: all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings. 
Distilling odours on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all. 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me; sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips : then for roses, moss or musk. 
To grace my city rooms ; or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm; and more and more 
A word could bring the colour to my cheek; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd; 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade; 

[ 109] 



IDYLS 

And each in passing touch' d with some new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day. 
Like one that never can be wholly known. 
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep ^I will,* 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 

There sat we down upon a garden mound. 
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third. 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd 
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd. 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near. 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her. 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own. 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear. 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; 
And in that time and place she answer' d me. 
And in the compass of three little words. 
More musical than ever came in one, 
[ 110 ] 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER 

The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, ^I am thine.* 

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes. 
By its own energy fulfill' d itself. 
Merged in completion? Would you learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed 
I had not staid so long to tell you all. 
But while I mused came Memory Avith sad eyes. 
Holding the folded annals of my youth; 
And while I mused. Love with knit brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my lips. 
And spake, ^Be wise: not easily forgiven 
Are those who, setting wide the doors that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart. 
Let in the day.' Here, then, my words have end. 

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of that which came between, more sweet than each. 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex' d for utterance. 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given. 
And vows, where there was never need of vows. 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 
[ 111 ] 



IDYLS 

Spread the light haze along the river-shores, 
And in the hollows; or as once we met 
Unheedful^ tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind. 
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there. 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart. 
My first, last love ; the idol of my youth. 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 



DORA 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son. 

And she his niece. He often look'd at them. 

And often thought, ^I '11 make them man and wife.' 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 

And yearn'd toward William ; but the youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house. 

Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, ^My son: 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
[ 112 ] 



DORA 

My grandchild on my knees before I die: 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter: he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 
For many years.' But William answer'd short: 
^I cannot marry Dora; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: 
^You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! 
But in my time a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; 
Consider, William : take a month to think. 
And let me have an answer to my wish; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack. 
And never more darken my doors again.' 
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips. 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said: ^My girl, I love you well; 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
[ 113 ] 



IDYLS 

Or change a word with her he calls his wife. 
My home is none of yours. My will is law.' 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!' 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

'I have obey'd my uncle until now. 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone. 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So full a harvest: let me take the boy. 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone.' 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
[ 114] 



DORA 

That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him. 
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said: ^ Where were you yesterday.'' 
Whose child is that.'* What are you doing here.'*' 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer'd softly, ^This is William's child!* 
'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not 
Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again: 
'Do with me as you will, but take the child. 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone!' 
And Allan said, 'I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy; 
But go you hence, and never see me more.' 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
[ 115 ] 



IDYLS 

At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. 
Remembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood: 
And Dora said, ^My uncle took the boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you: 
He says that he will never see me more.' 
Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us.' 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach' d the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 
[ 116] 



DORA 

Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her: 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

'O Father! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or WiUiam, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife: but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 

"God bless him!" he said, "and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro'!" Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before.' 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs: — 

^I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my 
son. 
I have kill'd him— but I loved him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me! — I have been to blame. 
[ 117 ] 



IDYLS 

Kiss me, my children.' 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



[118] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 



(ENONE 



There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 

The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning: but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas and Ilion's column' d citadel. 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 

^O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass; 

[ 119 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests Hke a shadow, and the winds are dead. 
The purple flower droops: the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love. 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere 1 die. 
Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves 
That house the cold crown' d snake ! O mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

^O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills. 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy-d*rk aloft the mountain pine: 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn' d, white-hooved. 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

'O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
[ 120 ] 



CENONE 

The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone: white-breasted Hke a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: 
And his cheek brighten' d as the foam-bow brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. ^ 

He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listen' d, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

^'^My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow' d CEnone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 
'For the most fair,' would seem to award it thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.*' 

'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added "This was cast upon the board. 
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
[ 121 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods." 

'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came. 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel. 
Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro*. 

'O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, "from many a vale 
And river-sunder' d champaign clothed with com, 

[ 122 ] 



CENONE 

Or labour' d mine undrainable of ore. 
Honour," she said, "and homage, tax and toll. 
From many an island town and haven large. 
Mast-throng' d beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers." 

'O mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
'^ Which in all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-stafF. Such boon from me. 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy." 

'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

[ 123] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

'^^Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law. 
Acting the law we live by without fear; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence." 

'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said: ''I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed. 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure. 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee. 
So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, hke a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom." 

'Here she ceas'd. 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, "O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas!" but he heard me not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

'O mother Ida, many-fountain' d Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
[ 124] 



CENONE 

Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder: from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

'Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, "I promise thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece." 
She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm. 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the bower; 
And from that time to this I am alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

'Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard. 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
[ 125 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

^O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines. 
My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all ^between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster d the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud. 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

^O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 
And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

^O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
[ 126] 



CENONE 

Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 
Seal'd it with kisses? water' d it with tears? 
O happy tears, and how unUke to these! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud. 
There are enough unhappy on this earth; 

Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within. 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 

*0 mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born: her child! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! 

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
[ 127 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day. 
All earth and air seem only burning fire.* 



ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king. 
By this still hearth, among these barren crags. 
Match' d with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer' d greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known : cities of men. 
And manners, climates, councils, governments. 
Myself not least, but honour' d of them all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
[ 128 ] 



ULYSSES 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were Ufe. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself. 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There Hes the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with 

me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
[ 129 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts. 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



TITHONUS 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. 
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms. 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair' d shadow roaming like a dream 
[ 130 ] 



TITHONUS 

The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
.So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
>Vho madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
L\> bis great heart none other than a God! 
1 ask'd thee, ^Give me immortality.' 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills. 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 
To hear me.'* Let me go: take back thy gift: 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men. 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all.'* 

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, 
[ 131 ] 



CHARACTER- PIECES 

Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise. 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true.'* 
'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.' 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay. 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine.'' 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
[ 132 ] 



LUCRETIUS 

Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave: 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



LUCRETIUS 

LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 
Her master cold ; for when the morning flush 
Of passion and the first embrace had died 
Between them, tho' he lov'd her none the less. 
Yet often when the woman heard his foot 
Return from pacings in the field, and ran 
To greet him with a kiss, the master took 
Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind 
Half buried in some weightier argument. 
Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 
And long roll of the Hexameter — he past 
To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls 
Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine. 
She brook'd it not; but wrathful, petulant, 
Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch 
Who brew'd the philtre which had power, they said, 
To lead an errant passion home again. 
And this, at times, she mingled with his drink, 
C 133] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

And this destroy'd him ; for the wicked broth 

Confused the chemic labour of the blood. 

And tickling the brute brain within the man's 

Made havock among those tender cells, and check'd 

His power to shape : he loathed himself; and once 

After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock'd him with returning calm, and cried: 

'Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain 
Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt — 
Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd 
A riotous confluence of watercourses 
Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

' Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams ! 
For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Perchance 
We do but recollect the dreams that come 
Just ere the waking: terrible! for it seem'd 
A void was made in Nature; all her bonds 
Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom-streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe. 
Ruining along the illimitable inane. 
Fly on to clash together again, and make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever: that was mine, my dream, I knew it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies 
His function of the woodland: but the next! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on earth, 
[ 134 ] 



LUCRETIUS 

And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang 

No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. 

For these I thought my dream would show to me. 

But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 

Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 

The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse 

Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. 

And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round me drove 

In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 

Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw — 

Was it the first beam of my latest day? 

'Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the breasts. 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct. 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a fire. 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke. 

'Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine. 
Because I would not one of thine own doves. 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? thine. 
Forgetful how my rich procemion makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field. 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity? 

'Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all? 
Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof 
From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn, 
[ 135 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Live the great life which all our greatest fain 
Would follow, centr'd in eternal calm. 

'Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like ourselves 
Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to thee 
To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms 
Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome. 

'Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant not her, 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were abroad; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous tears; 
Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow forth 
The all-generating powers and genial heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick blood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers : 
Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. 

'The Gods! and if I go my work is left 
Unfinish'd — if\ go. The Gods, who haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and world. 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind, 
[ 136] 



LUCRETIUS 

Nor ever falls the least white star of snow. 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans^ 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm! and such. 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm. 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Gods! 
If all be atoms, how then should the Gods 
* Being atomic not be dissoluble. 
Not follow the great law? My master held 
That Gods there are, for all men so believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? I meant? 
I have forgotten what I meant: my mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. 

' Look where another of our Gods, the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
Has mounted yonder; since he never sware. 
Except his wrath were wreak' d on wretched man. 
That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereafter; tales! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he what he sees; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of heaven: 
And here he glances on an eye new-born, 
[ 137 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

And gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; 

And here he stays upon a freezing orb 

That fain would gaze upon him to the last; 

And here upon a yellow eyelid fall'n 

And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain, 

Not thankful that his troubles are no more. 

And me^ altho' his fire is on my face 

Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 

Whether I mean this day to end myself. 

Or lend an ear to Plato where he says. 

That men like soldiers may not quit the post 

Allotted by the Gods : but he that holds 

The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care 

Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once. 

Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink 

Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone, that break 

Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life. 

And wretched age — and worst disease of all. 

These prodigies of myriad nakednesses. 

And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable. 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 

Not welcome, harpies miring every dish. 

The phantom husks of something foully done. 

And fleeting thro' the boundless universe. 

And blasting the long quiet of my breast 

With animal heat and dire insanity? 

^ How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp 
These idols to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour 
[ 138 ] 



LUCRETIUS 

Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 

The keepers down, and throng, their rags and they 

The basest, far into that council-hall 

Where sit the best and stateliest of the land? 

'Can I not fling this horror off me again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile. 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm. 
At random ravage? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough, 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of men? 

'But who was he, that in the garden snared 
Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself — 
For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus 
Totters; a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering — 
The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun; 
And here an Oread — how the sun delights 
To glance and shift about her slippery sides. 
And rosy knees and supple roundedness. 
And budded bosom-peaks — who this way runs 
Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 
Follows; but him I proved impossible; 
Twy-natured is no nature: yet he draws 
Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 
Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 
That ever butted his rough brother-brute 
For lust or lusty blood or provender: 
[ 139 ] 



CHARACTEU-riECES 

I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and she 

Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel, 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle-wing, 

Whirls her to me : but will she fling herself. 

Shameless upon me? Catch her, goat-foot: nay. 

Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilderness. 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I wish — 

What? — that the bush were leafless? or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to you 

From childly wont and ancient use I call — 

I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 

No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite, 

No madness of ambition, avarice, none : 

No larger feast than under plane or pine 

With neighbours laid along the grass, to take 

Only such cups as left us friendly- warm. 

Affirming each his own philosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen monster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my will. 

Wrenching it backward into his; and spoils 

My bliss in being; and it was not great; 

For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, 

Or Heliconian honey in living words. 

To make a truth less harsh, I often grew 

Tired of so much within our little life. 

Or of so little in our little life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end — 

[ 140 ] 



LUCRETIUS 

And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade. 
Why should I, beastlike as I find myself. 
Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 
What beast has heart to do it? And what man. 
What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph thus? 
Not I ; not he, who bears one name with her 
Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings. 
When, brooking not the Tarquin in her veins. 
She made her blood in sight of Collatine 
And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air. 
Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. 
And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks 
As I am breaking now! 

'And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made me man, 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once more. 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower: 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter d into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself. 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within the grave. 
The very sides of the grave itself shall pass. 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, 
Into the unseen for ever, — till that hour. 
My golden work in which I told a truth 

[ 141 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel. 

And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and plucks 

The mortal soul from out immortal hell. 

Shall stand; ay, surely: then it falls at last 

And perishes as I must; for O Thou, 

Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 

Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise. 

Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 

Without one pleasure and without one pain, 

Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine 

Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 

I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 

How roughly men may woo thee so they win — 

Thus — thus: the soul flies out and dies in the air.' 

With that he drove the knife into his side: 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; ran in. 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd: he answer' d, 'Care not 

thou! 
Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well!* 



ST. AGNES' EVE 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon: 

My breath to heaven like vapour goes: 
May my soul follow soon! 

The shadows of the convent-towers 
Slant down the snowy sward, 
[ 142 ] 



ST. AGNES EVE 

Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark. 

To yonder shining ground; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark. 

To yonder argent round; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He Hfts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride! 
[ 143 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands. 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favours fall! 
For them I battle till the end. 

To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
[ 144 ] 



SIR GALAHAD 

Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings the^ail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
[ U5 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

But blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams. 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odours haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand. 

This mortal araiour that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod. 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
^O just and faithful knight of God! 

Ride on! the prize is near.' 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale. 
All-arm' d I ride, whate'er betide. 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



[ 146] 



NORTHERN FARMER 
NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan? 
Noorse? thourt nowt o' a noorse : whoy. Doctor's abean 

an' agoiin: 
Says that I moiint 'a naw moor aiile : but I beiint a fool : 
Git ma my aiile, fur I beiint a-gawin' to break my rule. 

II 
Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's nawways 

true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty 

year. 

Ill 
Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere o' my bed. 
*The amoighty 's a taakin o' you ^ to 'issen, my friend/ 

a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I 

gied it in hond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 

IV 

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne. 

1 ou as in hour. 

[ 147 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch 

an' staate. 
An' i' the woost o* toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 

V 

An' I hallus coom'd to 's chooch afoor moy Sally wur 

dead, 
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock^ 

ower my 'ead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad 

summut to saay. 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd 

awaay. 

VI 

Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, ma lass, tha mun under- 

stond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. 

VII 

But Parson a cooms an* a goas, an' a says it easy an' 

freea 
'The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,' 

says 'ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 

'aaste : 
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd 

Thurnaby waaste. 

1 Cockchafer. 

[ 148 ] 



NORTHERN FARMER 

VIII 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was 

not born then; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen; 
Moast loike a butter-bump/ fur I 'eard 'um about an' 

about, 
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' 

rembled 'um out. 

IX 

Reaper's it wur; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is 

faace 
Down i' the woild 'enemies^ afoor I coom'd to the 

plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner^ 'ed shot 'um as dead as 

a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my 

aale. 

X 

Dubbut loook at the waaste: theer warn't not feead 

for a cow; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' 

feead, 
Fourscoor* yows upon it an' some on it down i' seead.^ 

XI 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd 

it at fall. 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thrufF it an' 

all, 

1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. ^ One or other. ^ ou as in hour. 
5 Clover, 

[ 149 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond 
o' my oan. 

XII 

Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taakin' o'mea? 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea; 
An' Squoire 'uU be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear! 
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty 
year. 

XIII 

A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o* 

sense. 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended 

a fence: 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma 

now 
Wi'aaf the cows tocauve an' Thurnabyhoalms to plow! 

XIV 

Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a 

passin' boy. 
Says to thessen naw doubt 'what a man a bea sewer- 

loy!' 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a 

coom'd to the 'All; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy 

hall. 

XV 

Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to 

wroite. 
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles 

ma quoit; 

[ 150 ] 



NORTHERN FARMER 

Sartin-sewer I bea^thot a weiint niver give it to Joiines, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the 
stoans. 

XVI 

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle 

o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's 

oiin team. 
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy^thaw loife they says is sweet. 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to 

see it. 

XVII 

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the 

aale? 
Doctor 's a 'toattler, lass, an a 's hallus i' the owd taale ; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor 

a floy; 
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. 



NORTHERN FARMER 

NEW STYLE 

I 

Dosn't thou'ear my 'erse's legs,as they canters awaay.'' 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that 's what I 'ears 'em 

saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou 's an ass for 

thy paains: 
Theer 's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy 

braains. 

[ 151 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

II 

Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha^ Sam: yon 's 

parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man 

or a mouse? 
Time to think on it then; for thou '11 be twenty to 

weeak.^ 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear my- 

sen speak. 

Ill 

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou 's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean a tellin' 

it me. 
Thou '11 not marry for munny — thou 's sweet upo' 

parson's lass — 
Noa — thou '11 marry for luvv — an' we boath on us 

thinks tha an ass. 

IV 

Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's-daay — they was 

ringing the bells. 
She 's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells. 
Them as 'as munny an' all — wot 's a beauty? — the 

flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty 

graws. 

V 

Do'ant be stunt^: taake time: I knaws what maakes 

tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a 

lad? 

1 This week. 2 Obstinate. 

[ 152 ] 



NORTHERN FARMER 

But I knaw'd aQuaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this : 
*Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny 
is!' 

VI 

An' I went wheer munny war : an' thy muther coom 

to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
. Maaybe she warn't a beauty: — I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 
'ant nowt? 

VII 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 

'e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle ^ her 

bread : 
Why? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weant niver git 

hissen clear, 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to 

the shere. 

VIII 

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, 

Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 

An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im 
a shuvv, 

Woorse nor a far-welter'd^ yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e mar- 
ried fur luvv. 

IX 

Luvv.? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er 

munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they 've good right to do. 

1 Earn. 2 Or fow-welter'd^ — said of a sheep lying on its hack. 
[ 153 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Couldn I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laa'id 
by? 

Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it: rea- 
son why. 

X 

Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn: an' we boiith on us thinks 

tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as near as mays 

nowt^ — 
Woa then, wiltha.'' dangtha! — the bees is as fell as 

wot. 2 

XI 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o* the 

fence ! 
Gentleman burn! what 's gentleman burn? is it shillins 

an' pence? 
Proputty, proputty 's ivry thing 'ere, an', Sammy, I 'm 

blest 
If it is n't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it 's 

the best. 

XII 

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into'ouses an* steals, 

Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regu- 
lar meals. 

Noa, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer a meal 's to 
be 'ad. 

Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is 
bad. 

1 Makes nothing. 2 The flies are as fierce as anything. 
[ 154 ] 



NORTHERN FARMER 

XIII 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beiin a laazy 

lot. 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny 

was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastways 'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an' 'e died a good 

un, *e did. 

XIV 

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out 

by the 'ill! 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the 

mill ; 
An' I '11 run oop to the brig, an' that thou '11 live to 

see; 
And if thou marries a good un I '11 leave the land to 

thee. , 

XV 

Thim 's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to 

stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I '11 leave the land to 

Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 

'im saay — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter 

awaay. 



[ 155 ] 



CHARACTER- PIECES 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is 

early morn: 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon 

the bugle-horn. 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews 
call. 

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locks- 
ley Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 

sandy tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went 

to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mel- 
low shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander' d, nourishing a youth 

sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result 

of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land re- 
posed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that 

it closed: 

[ 156 ] 



l.OCKSI.EY HALL 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could 

see; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 

would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's 
breast ; 

In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself an- 
other crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish' d 

dove; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 

thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be 
for one so young. 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute obser- 
vance hung. 

And I said, 'My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me. 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to 

thee.* 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and 

a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern 

night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden 

storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 

eyes — 

[ 157 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Saying, 'I have hid my feelings, fearing they should 

do me wrong;' 
Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin?' weeping, 'I have 

loved thee long.' 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his 
Y glowing hands; 

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 
sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 

chords with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in 

music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 

copses ring. 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness 

of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the 

stately ships. 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the 

lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no 

more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, ban-en 

shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 

have sung. 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish 

tongue ! 

[ 158 ] 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — 

to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 

than mine! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by 

day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise 

with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with 

a clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 

drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent 

its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his 

horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are 

glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in 

thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over- 
wrought : 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy 
lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- 
stand — 

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee 
with my hand! 

[ 159 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's 
disgrace, 

Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last em- 
brace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength 

of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living 

truth! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Na- 
ture's rule! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten' d forehead 
of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou 

less unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever 

wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but 

bitter fruit.'' 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at 

the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years 

should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging 

rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the 

mind.'' 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 



her, kind? 



[ 160 ] 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak 

and move: 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love 
she bore? 

No — she never loved me truly: love is love for ever- 
more. 

Comfort.^ comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the 
poet sings. 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering hap- 
pier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart 

be put to proof. 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on 

the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring 

at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows 

rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 

drunken sleep. 
To thy widow' d marriage-pillows, to the tears that 

thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' whisper'd by the 

phantom years. 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of 

thine ears; 

[ 161 ] 



CHARACTER- PIECES 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 

on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy 

rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice 

will cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble 

dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings 

thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 

mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness 

not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the 

two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 
daughter's heart. 

'They were dangerous guides the feelings — she her- 
self was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffer'd' — Perish in thy self- 
contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore should 

I care? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 
[ 162 ] 



i 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

What is that which I should turn to, Hghting upon 

days hke these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden 

keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets 

overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should 

do.? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's 

ground. 
When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds 

are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

Honour feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness } I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous 
Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the 

strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of 

my life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 
years would yield. 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his fa- 
ther's field, 

[ 163] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer 

drawn. 
Sees in heaven the Ught of London flaring Uke a dreary 

dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him 

then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs 

of men : 

Men, my brothers, men the w^orkers, ever reaping 

something new: 
That which they have done but earnest of the things 

that they shall do: 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see. 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 
would be; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic 

sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 

costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd 

a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central 

blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind 

rushing warm. 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the 

thunder-storm; 

[ 164] 



LOCKSI.EY HALL 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle- 
flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful 

realm in awe. 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal 

law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left 

me dry. 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the 

jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out 

of joint: 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from 

point to point: 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping 
nigher. 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose 
runs, < 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the pro- 
cess of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youth- ^, 

ful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a 

boy's? 

[ 165 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger 

on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is more 

and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears 

a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness 

of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the 

bugle-horn. 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 

their scorn: 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moul- 
der' d string.^ 

I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight 
a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's plea- 
sure, woman's pain — 

Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 
shallower brain: 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match' d 

with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 

wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for 

some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began 

to beat; 

[ 166] 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil- 

starr'd; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 

ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 

away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots 

of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 
trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy- 
fruited tree — 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of 
sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this 

march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that 

shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope 

and breathing space; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

[167] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew' d, they shall dive, and they 

shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances 

in the sun; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows 

of the brooks. 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 

books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I hnow my words 
are wild, 

But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Chris- 
tian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glori- 
ous gains. 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 
lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun 

or clime? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by 

one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward 

let us range. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing' 

grooves of change. 

[ 168] 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 

younger day: 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when 

life begun: 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, 

weigh the Sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy 
yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locks- 
ley Hall! 

Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 
roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over 
heath and holt, 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thun- 
derbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire 

or snow; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERB 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 

You thought to break a country heart 
For pastime, ere you went to town. 
[ 169 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired: 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: 

A great enchantress you may be; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 
[ 170] 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view. 
She had the passions of her kind. 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door: 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse. 

To make him trust his modest worth. 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 

You pine among your halls and towers: 

The languid light of your proud eyes 
Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
[ 171 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease. 

You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands? 
Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
Pray heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 

SELECTIONS FROM MAUD; 

A MONODRAMA. 

PART I 

V 

I 

A VOICE by the cedar tree 
In the meadow under the Hall! 
She is singing an air that is known to me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life. 
In the happy morning of life and of May, 
Singing of men that in battle array. 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 
[ 172] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

II 
Maud with her exquisite face. 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky. 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 
Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die, 
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean. 
And myself so languid and base. 

Ill 
Silence, beautiful voice! 
Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 
Still ! I will hear you no more. 
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind. 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 



XI 

I 
O let the solid ground 

Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet; 
Then let come what come may. 



W^hat matter if I go mad, 
I shall have had my day. 

[ 173 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

II 
Let the sweet heavens endure, 

Not close and darken above me 
Before I am quite quite sure 

That there is one to love me; 
Then let come what come may 
To a life that has been so sad, 
I shall have had my day. 

XII 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

II 
Where was Maud.^ in our wood; 

And I, who else, was with her. 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

M)rriads blow together. 

Ill 
Birds in our wood sang 

Ringing thro* the valleys, 
Maud is here, here, here 

In among the lilies. 

IV 

I kiss'd her slender hand. 
She took the kiss sedately; 
[ 174 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 



I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favour! 

Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 

VI 

1 know the way she went 

Home with her maiden posy, 
For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

VII 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her. 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud? 
One is come to woo her. 

VIII 

Look, a horse at the door. 

And little King Charley snarling, 

Go back, my lord, across the moor. 
You are not her darling. 

XVII 

Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields. 

Go not, happy day. 
Till the maiden yields. 
[ 175 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her Hps, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships; 
Over blowing seas. 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Blush it thro' the West; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII 



I have led her home, my love, my only friend. 
There is none like her, none. 
And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on, 
C 176] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

Calming itself to the long- wish' d-for end, 
Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 

II 

None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk. 

And shook my heart to think she comes once more; 

But even then I heard her close the door. 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 

Ill 

There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy deHcious East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased. 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 

And looking to the South, and fed 

With honey' d rain and delicate air. 

And haunted by the starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate. 

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame; 

And over whom thy darkness must have spread 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 

Forefathers of the thomless garden, there 

Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. 

IV 

Here will I lie, while these long branches sway. 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
[ 177] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Go in and out as if at merry play. 

Who am no more all so forlorn, 

As when it seem'd far better to be born 

To labour and the mattock-harden' d hand. 

Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 

A sad astrology, the boundless plan 

That makes you tyrants in your iron skies. 

Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 

Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 

His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 

The countercharm of space and hollow sky, 

And do accept my madness, and would die 

To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 

VI 

Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give 

More life to Love than is or ever was 

In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. 

Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 

It seems that I am happy, that to me 

A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 

A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

VII 

Not die; but live a life of truest breath. 
And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs. 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death .^ 
[ 178 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

Make answer, Maud my bliss, 

Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss, 

Life of my life, wilt tliou not answer this? 

*The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 

With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear.' 



VIII 

Is that enchanted moan only the swell 

Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 

And hark the clock within, the silver knell 

Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white. 

And died to live, long as my pulses play; 

But now by this my love has closed her sight 

And given false death her hand, and stol'n away 

To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden day. 

May nothing there her maiden grace affright! 

Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 

My bride to be, my evermore delight. 

My own heart's heart, my ownest own, farewell; 

It is but for a little space I go: 

And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 

Beat to the noiseless music of the night! 

Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 

Of your soft splendours that you look so bright.^ 

/ have climb' d nearer out of lonely Hell. 

Beat, happy stars, timing with things below. 

Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell. 

Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be so: 

Let all be well, be well. 

[ 179] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

XXII 

I 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 

And the musk of the rose is blown. 

II 
For a breeze of morning moves. 

And the planet of Love is on high. 
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 

On a bed of daffodil sky. 
To faint in the light of the sun she loves. 

To faint in his light, and to die. 

Ill 
All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

IV 

I said to the lily, 'There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 

When will the dancers leave her alone.? 
She is weary of dance and play.' 

Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
[ 180] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

And half to the rising day; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

V 

I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose^ 

'For ever and ever, mine.* 

VI 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 

As the music clash' d in the hall; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood. 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

VII 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

VIII 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
[ 181 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

But the rose was awake all night for your sake. 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

IX 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done. 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, my life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, ^She is near, she is near;' 

And the white rose weeps, ^She is late;' 
The larkspur listens, ^I hear, I hear;' 

And the lily whispers, 'I wait.' 

XI 

She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 
[ 182 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

PART II 
II 
I 

See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl. 
Lying close to my foot. 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl. 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 

II 
What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 

Ill 
The tiny cell is forlorn. 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl' d, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro* his dim water-world? 

IV 

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
[ 183 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand! 

Ill 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left for ever alone: 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply: 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shalt more than die. 

IV 

{In this section the text is that of the first edition^ 
as found in ''^Stanzas'" from The Tribute, 1837.) 

Oh! that 'twere possible. 

After long grief and pain. 
To find the arms of my true-love 

Round me once again! 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 

Of the land that gave me birth. 
We stood tranced in long embraces, 
[ 184 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter. 
Than any thing on earth. 

A shadow flits before me — 

Not thou, but like to thee. 
Ah God ! that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 
The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be. 

It leads me forth at Evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 
In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 
At the shouts, the leagues of lights. 

And the roaring of the wheels. 

Half the night I waste in sighs, 

In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes — 

For the meeting of to-morrow. 
The delight of happy laughter. 
The delight of low repUes. 

Do I hear the pleasant ditty. 
That I heard her chant of old? 
But I wake — my dream is fled. 
Without knowledge, without pity — 
In the shuddering dawn behold, 

By the curtains of my bed. 
That abiding phantom cold. 
[ 185 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

Then I rise: the eave-drops fall 
And the yellow-vapours choke. 
The great city sounding wide; 
The day comes — a dull red ball. 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke. 
On the misty river-tide. 

Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame ; 
It crosseth here, it crosseth there — 
Thro' all the crowd, confused and loud. 

The shadow still the same; 
And on my heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 

Alas for her that met me. 
That heard me softly call — 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 
At the quiet even-fall. 

In the garden by the turrets 
Of the old Manorial Hall. 

Then the broad light glares and beats, 

And the sunk eye flits and fleets. 
And will not let me be. 

I loathe the squares and streets. 
And the faces that one meets. 

Hearts with no love for me; 
Always I long to creep 
To some still cavern deep. 
And to weep and weep and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 
[ 186 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM MAUD 

Get thee hence, nor come again 
Pass and cease to move about — 

Pass, thou death-like type of pain. 
Mix not memory with doubt. 

'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 

Would the happy Spirit descend 
In the chamber or the street 
As she looks among the blest; 
Should I fear to greet my friend. 
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet. 
To the region of thy rest." 

But she tarries in her place. 
And I paint the beauteous face 
Of the maiden, that I lost, 
In my inner eyes again. 
Lest my heart be overborne 
By the thing I hold in scorn. 
By a dull mechanic ghost 
And a juggle of the brain. 

I can shadow forth my bride 
As I knew her fair and kind. 
As I woo'd her for my wife; 
She is lovely by my side 

In the silence of my life — 
'T is a phantom of the mind. 

'T is a phantom fair and good ; 
I can call it to my side. 

So to guard my life from ill, 
[ 187 ] 



CHARACTER- PIECES 

Tho' its ghastly sister glide 
And be moved around me still 
With the moving of the blood. 

That is moved not of the will. 

Let it pass, the dreary brow. 

Let the dismal face go by. 
Will it lead me to the grave? 
Then I lose it: it will fly: 
Can it overlast the nerves? 

Can it overlive the eye? 
But the other, like a star. 
Thro' the channel windeth far 

Till it fade and fail and die. 
To its Archetype that waits. 
Clad in light by golden gates - 
Clad in light the Spirit waits 

To embrace me in the sky. 



RIZPAH 

17— 

I 
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and 

sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, 'O mother, come out 

to me.' 
Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that 

I cannot go? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon 

stares at the snow. 

[ 188 ] 



I 



RIZPAH 

II 

We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out 

of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing 

over the down. 
When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the 

creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself 

drenched with the rain. 



Ill 
Anything fallen again? nay — what was there left to 

fall? 
I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, 

I have hidden them all. 
What am I saying? and what are you? do you come 

as a spy? 
Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so 

must it lie. 

IV 

Who let her in? how long has she been? you — what 

have you heard? 
Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a 

word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their 

spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to 

darken my eyes. 

[ 189 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

V 

Ah — you, that have Uved so soft, what should you 

know of the night. 
The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost 

and the fright? 
I have done it, while you were asleep — you were only 

made for the day. 
I have gather' d my baby together — and now you may 

go your way. 

VI 

Nay — for it's kind of you. Madam, to sit by an old 

dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour 

of hfe. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. 
'They dared me to do it,' he said, and he never has 

told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was 

but a child — 
'The farmer dared me to do it,' he said; he was al- 
ways so wild — 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my Willy — he 

never could rest. 
The King should have made him a soldier, he would 

have been one of his best. 

VII 

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never 

would let him be good; 
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore 

that he would; 

[ 190 ] 



RIZPAH 

And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when 

all was done 
He flung it among his fellows — I '11 none of it, said 

my son. 

VIII 

I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told 

them my tale, 
God's own truth — but they kill'd him, they kill'd him 

for robbing the mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had always 

borne a good name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away — is n't 

that enough shame? 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide! but they set 

him so high 
That all the ships of the world could stare at him, 

passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls 

of the air. 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him 

and hang'd him there. 

IX 

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last 

goodbye ; 
They had fasten' d the door of his cell. 'O mother!' 

I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something 

further to say. 
And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me 

away. 

[ 191 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

X 

Then since I could n't but hear that cry of my boy 

that was dead, 
They seized me and shut me up; they fasten'd me 

down on my bed. 
'Mother, O mother!' — he call'd in the dark to me 

year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me — you know that 

I couldn't but hear; 
And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid 

and still 
They let me abroad again — but the creatures had 

worked their will. 

XI 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was 

left— 
I stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will you 

call it a theft? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that 

had laugh'd and had cried — 
Theirs? O no! they are mine — not theirs — they had 

moved in my side. 

XII 

Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 'em, 
I buried 'em all — 

I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the church- 
yard wall. 

My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judge- 
ment 'ill sound; 

But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy 
ground. 

[ 192 ] 



RIZPAH 

XIII 

They would scratch him up — they would hang him 

again on the cursed tree. 
Sin? O yes — we are sinners, I know — let all that be, 
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will 

toward men — 
'Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord' — let me 

hear it again; 
'Full of compassion and mercy — long-suffering.' Yes, 

O yes! 
For the lawyer is bom but to murder — the Saviour 

lives but to bless. 
He '11 never put on the black cap except for the worst 

of the worst. 
And the first may be last — I have heard it in church — 

and the last may be first. 
Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as the Lord must 

know, 
Year after year in the mist and the wind and the 

shower and the snow. 

XIV 

Heard, have you.? what? they have told you he never 

repented his sin. 
How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of 

his kin? 
Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the 

downs began, 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 

'ill moan* like a man? 



[ 193 ] 



CHARACTER-PIECES 

XV 
Election, Election and Reprobation — it's all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him 

in Hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has 

look'd into my care, 
And He means me I 'm sure to be happy with Willy, 

I know not where. 

XVI 

And if he be lost — but to save my soul, that is all your 

desire : 
Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone 

to the fire.'* 
I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may 

leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you are just as hard 

as a stone. 

XVII 

Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean 
to be kind. 

But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice 
in the wind — 

The snow and the sky so bright — he used but to call 
in the dark, 

And he calls to me now from the church and not 
from the gibbet — for hark! 

Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming — shak- 
ing the walls — 

Willy — the moon's in a cloud — Good-night. I am 
going. He calls. 

[ 194 ] 



Ill 

SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEML 



THE PRINCESS 

BOOK VII 

So was their sanctuary violated, 

So their fair college turn'd to hospital; 

At first with all confusion : by and by 

Sweet order lived again with other laws : 

A kindlier influence reign'd; and everywhere 

Low voices with the ministering hand 

Hung round the sick; the maidens came, they talk'd, 

They sang, they read : till she not fair began 

To gather light, and she that was, became 

Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 

With books, with flowers, with Angel offices, 

Like creatures native unto gracious act. 

And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell. 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke : but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her use. 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore. 
And suck the blinding splendour from the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world: so fared she gazing there; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, blank 

[ 197 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

And waste it seem'd and vain; till down she came. 
And found fair peace once more among the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd; and morn by morn the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres^ but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd; and broader-grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep. 



But I lay still, and with me oft she sat: 
Then came a change; for sometimes I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
^You are not Ida;' clasp it once again. 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not. 
And call her sweet, as if in irony. 
And call her hard and cold which seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my mind. 
And often she believed that I should die: 
Till out of long frustation of her care. 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days. 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief, 
[ 198 ] 



THE PRINCESS, BOOK VII 

And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter' d dream. 
And often feeling of the helpless hands. 
And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 
By some cold morning glacier; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather d colour day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close to death 
For weakness: it was evening: silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs; for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm' d 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat. 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls. 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins. 
The fierce triumvirs; and before them paused 
Hortensia pleading: angry was her face. 

I saw the forms: I knew not where I was: 
They did but look like hollow shows ; nor more 
Sweet Ida: palm to palm she sat: the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder seem'd: I moved: I sigh'd: a touch 
[ 199 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand: 

Then all for languor and self-pity ran 

Mine down my face, and with what life I had. 

And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 

So drench' d it is with tempest, to the sun, 

Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 

Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 

' If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream. 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.' 

I could no more, but lay like one in trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign. 
But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd; she paused; 
She stoop'd; and out of languor leapt a cry; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe. 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt; and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides. 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
[ 200 ] 



THE PRINCESS, BOOK VII 

To meet her Graces^ where they deck'd her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of mine, 
StateHest, for thee! but mute she ghded forth. 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land: 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: 
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars. 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me.' 

I heard her turn the page ; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read : 

[ 201 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

'Come down^O maid, from yonder mountain height; 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come. 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize. 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver horns. 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine. 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice. 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air: 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound. 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms. 
And murmuring of innumerable bees.' 

[ 202 ] 



So she low-toned; while with shut eyes I lay 
Listening; then look'd. Pale was the perfect face; 
The bosom with long sighs labour'd; and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility; had fail'd in all; 
That all her labour was but as a block 
Left in the quarry; but she still were loth. 
She still were loth to yield herself to one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than power 
In knowledge: something wild within her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to week: 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts: yet was she but a girl — 
'Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce! 
When comes another such? never, I think. 
Till the Sun drop, dead, from the signs.' 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands. 
And her great heart thro' all the faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light: 

She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 
[ 203 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

'Blame not thyself too much/ I said^ 'nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink 
Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or free; 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal. 
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands — 
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable. 
How shall men grow? but work no more alone! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man. 
But diverse : could we make her as the man. 
Sweet Love were slain: his dearest bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they grow; 
The man be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 

[ 204 ] 



THE PRINCESS, BOOK VII 

Like perfect music unto noble words; 

And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 

Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers. 

Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 

Self- reverent each and reverencing each. 

Distinct in individualities. 

But like each other ev'n as those who love. 

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men: 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm; 

Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 

May these things be ! ' 

Sighing she spoke, 'I fear 
They will not.' 

'Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow. 
The single pure and perfect animal. 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one full stroke. 
Life.' 

And again sighing she spoke: 'A dream 
That once was mine! what woman taught you this.^' 

'Alone,' I said, 'from earlier than I know. 
Immersed in rich foreshado wings of the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death. 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime: 
[ 205 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious household ways. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants. 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men. 
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved, 
And girdled her with music. Happy he 
With such a mother! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
He shall not blind his soul with clay.' 

'But I,' 
Said Ida, tremulously, *^so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words : 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
You cannot love me.' 

'Nay but thee,' I said, 
'From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes. 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, 
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee. 
Indeed I love: the new day comes, the light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 

[ 206 ] 



GUINEVERE 

Lived over: lift thine eyes; my doubts are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows : the change. 
This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine, 
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world. 
Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride. 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world. 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 
And so thro' those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come. 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.' 



GUINEVERE 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice: one low light betwixt them burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face. 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. 

[ 207 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

For hither had she fled^ her cause of flight 
Sir Modred; he that Uke a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne. 
Ready to springs waiting a chance : for this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King 
With silent smiles of slow disparagement ; 
And tamper' d with the Lords of the White Horse, 
Heathen^ the brood by Hengist left; and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims 
Were sharpen' d by strong hate for Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when all the court. 
Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 
Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might. 
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst; and more than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand 
Picks from the colewort'a green caterpillar, 
So from the high wall and the flowering grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel. 
And cast him as a worm upon the Avay; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust. 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man. 
Made such excuses as he might, and these 
Full knightly without scorn; for in those days 
[ 208 ] 



GUINEVERE 

No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn ; 

But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 

By those w^hom God had made full-limb' d and tall. 

Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 

And he was answer d softly by the King 

And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 

To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice 

Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: 

But, ever after, the small violence done 

Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, 

As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 

A little bitter pool about a stone 

On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall. 
Then sh udder' d, as the village wife who cries 
'I shudder, some one steps across my grave;' 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast. 
Would track her guilt until he found, and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in hall. 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot die, 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and went 
[ 209 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 

Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, 

Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, 

That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — 

Held her awake : or if she slept, she dream' d 

An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to stand 

On some vast plain before a setting sun. 

And from the sun there swiftly made at her 

A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 

Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — 

When lo ! her own, that broadening from her feet. 

And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it 

Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 

And all this trouble did not pass but grew; 

Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, 

And trustful courtesies of household life. 

Became her bane ; and at the last she said, 

'O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land. 

For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 

And if we meet again, some evil chance 

Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze 

Before the people, and our lord the King.* 

And Lancelot ever promised, but remain' d. 

And still they met and met. Again she said, 

' O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.' 

And then they were agreed upon a night 

(When the good King should not be there) to meet 

And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard. 

She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met 

And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye. 

Low on the border of her couch they sat 

[ 210 ] 



GUINEVERE 

Stammering and staring. It was their last hour, 

A madness of farewells. And Modred brought 

His creatures to the basement of the tower 

For testimony; and crying with full voice 

'Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last/ aroused 

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell 

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off. 

And all Mas still: then she, 'The end is come. 

And I am shamed for ever;' and he said, 

'Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise. 

And fly to my strong castle overseas: 

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end. 

There hold thee with my life against the world.' 

She answer'd, 'Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so.? 

Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. 

Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself! 

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 

Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly. 

For I will draw me into sanctuary. 

And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse, 

Set her thereon, and mounted on his own. 

And then they rode to the divided way. 

There kiss'd, and parted weeping: for he past, 

Love-lo3^al to the least wish of the Queen, 

Back to his land; but she to Almesbury 

Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, 

And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald 

Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: 

And in herself she moan'd, 'Too late, too late!' 

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, 

[ 211 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

A blot in heaven^ the Raven, flying high, 
Croak'd, and she thought/ He spies a field of death; 
For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court. 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.' 

And when she came to Almesbury she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, ^Mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time 
To tell you:' and her beauty, grace, and power. 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought. 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift. 
But communed only with the little maid. 
Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself; but now. 
This night, a rumour wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp' d the realm. 
And leagued him with the heathen, while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought, 
^With what a hate the people and the King 
Must hate me,' and bow'd down upon her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering, 'Late! so late! 
What hour, I wonder, now.'*' and when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 

[ 212 ] 



GUINEVERE 

An air the nuns had taught her, 'Late, so late!* 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said, 
'O maiden, if indeed ye Ust to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.* 
Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. 

'Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! 
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

'No light had we: for that we do repent; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

'No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! 
O let us in, that we may find the light! 
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter now. 

'Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet.'* 
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet! 
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.' 

So sang the novice, while full passionately. 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice prattling to her, 

'O pray you, noble lady, weep no more; 
But let my words, the words of one so small. 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey. 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of that, 
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SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Who see your tender grace and stateliness. 

But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, 

And weighing find them less ; for gone is he 

To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, 

Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen ; 

And Modred whom he left in charge of all. 

The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief 

For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm. 

Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 

For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. 

For if there ever come a grief to me 

I cry my cry in silence, and have done. 

None knows it, and my tears have brought me good : 

But even were the griefs of little ones 

As great as those of great ones, yet this grief 

Is added to the griefs the great must bear, 

That howsoever much they may desire 

Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: 

As even here they talk at Almesbury 

About the good King and his wicked Queen, 

And were I such a King with such a Queen, 

Well might I wish to veil her wickedness. 

But were I such a King, it could not be.' 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen, 
'Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?' 
But openly she answer' d, 'Must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced his lord. 
Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?' 

'Yea,' said the maid, 'this is all woman's grief. 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
[ 214 ] 



GUINEVERE 

Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years ago. 
With signs and miracles and wonders, there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.' 

Then thought the Queen within herself again, 
^Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?' 
But openly she spake and said to her, 
'O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls. 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
And simple miracles of thy nunnery?' 

To whom the little novice garrulously, 
'Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of it; 
And rode thereto from Lyonesse, and he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down thccoast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused, and turning — there. 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 
And with a wild sea-light about his feet. 
He saw them — headland after headland flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west: 
And in the light the white mermaiden swam. 
And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land. 
To which the little elves of chasm and cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 
[ 215 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

So said my father — yea^ and furthermore. 
Next morning, while he passed the dim-Ht woods. 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower. 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: 
And still at evenings on before his horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream' d; for every knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated things 
Shoulder' d the spigot, straddling on the butts 
While the wine ran : so glad w ere spirits and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen.' 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, 
'Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all. 
Spirits and men : could none of them foresee. 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm?' 

To whom the novice garrulously again, 
^Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said. 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, 
[ 21G ] 



GUINEVERE 

Between the steep cliff and the coming wave; 

And many a mystic lay of life and death 

Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops. 

When round him bent the spirits of the hills 

With all their dewy hair blown back like flame : 

So said my father — and that night the bard 

Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King 

As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at those 

Who call'd him the ffilse son of Gorlois; 

For there was no man knew from whence he came ; 

But after tempest, when the long wave broke 

All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, 

There came a day as still as heaven, and then 

They found a naked child upon the sands 

Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea ; 

And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd him 

Till he by miracle was approven King: 

And that his grave should be a mystery 

From all men, like his birth ; and could he find 

A woman in her womanhood as great 

As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. 

The twain together well might change the world. 

But even in the middle of his song 

He falter d, and his hand fell from the harp. 

And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have fall'n, 

But that they stay'd him up; nor would he tell 

His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw 

This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?' 

Then thought the Queen, ^Lo ! they have set her on, 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, 
To play upon me,' and bow'd her head nor spake. 
[ 217 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Whereat the novice crying^ with clasp' d hands, 

Shame on her own garrulity garrulously. 

Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue 

Full often, 'and, sweet lady, if I seem 

To vex an ear too sad to listen to me. 

Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 

Which my good father told me, check me too 

Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 

Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say 

Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, 

Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back. 

And left me ; but of others who remain. 

And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 

And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 

But pray you, which had noblest, w hile you moved 

Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King?' 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and answer'd her, 
'Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight. 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most nobly-manner'd men of all; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.' 

'Yea,' said the maid, 'be manners such fair fruit? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumour runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the world.' 

[ 218 ] 



GUINEVERE 

To which a mournful answer made the Queen: 
'O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls. 
What knowest thou of the world,, and all its lights 
And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe? 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. 
Were for one hour less noble than himself, 
Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire. 
And weep for her who drew him to his doom.' 

'Yea,' said the little novice, 'I pray for both; 
But I should all as soon believe that his. 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.' 

So she, like many another babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she would 

heal; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, 
'Such as thou art be never maiden more 
For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly. 
And when the Queen had added 'Get thee hence/ 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again. 
Saying in herself, 'The simple, fearful child 
[ 219 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt. 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — 
Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to us: 
And I have sworn never to see him more. 
To see him more.' 

And ev'n in saying this. 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came. 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man. 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they. 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time 
Was may time, and as yet no sin was dream' d,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth. 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before; and on again. 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 
That crown' d the state pavilion of the King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. 
[ 220 ] 



GUINEVERE 

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance. 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously. 
Came to that point where first she saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold. 
High, self-contain' d, and passionless, not like him, 
'Not like my Lancelot' — while she brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran. 
Then on a sudden a cry, 'The King.' She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell. 
And grovell'd with her face against the floor: 
There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the King: 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice. 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but the' changed, the King's: 

'Liest thou here so low, the child of one 
I honour'd, happy, dead before thy shame.'* 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and fire. 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws. 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea; 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm. 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me. 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
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SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 

And knowest thou now from whence I come — from 

him. 
From waging bitter war with him: and he. 
That did not shun to smite me in worse way. 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left. 
He spared to lift his hand against the King 
Who made him knight : but many a knight was slain ; 
And many more, and all his kith and kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
And many more when Modred raised revolt. 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part. 
True men who love me still, for whom I live. 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on. 
Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me. 
That I the King should greatly care to live; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my Ufe. 
Bear with me for the last time while I show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 
Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed 
Of prowess done redress' d a random wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The Knighthood-errant of this realm and all 

[ 222 ] 



GUINEVERE 

The realms together under me, their Head, 

In that fair Order of my Table Round, 

A glorious company, the flower of men. 

To serve as model for the mighty world, 

And be the fair beginning of a time. 

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 

To reverence the King, as if he were 

Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs. 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 

To honour his own word as if his God's, 

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 

And worship her by years of noble deeds. 

Until they won her; for indeed I knew 

Of no more subtle master under heaven 

Than is the maiden passion for a maid. 

Not only to keep down the base in man. 

But teach high thought, and amiable words 

And courtliness, and the desire of fame. 

And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 

And all this throve before I wedded thee. 

Believing, '^lo mine helpmate, one to feel 

My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." 

Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; 

Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt; 

Then others, following these my mightiest knights, 

And drawing foul ensample from fair names, 

Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 

Of all my heart had destined did obtain, 

[ 223 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine 

I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong, 

Not greatly care to lose; but rather think 

How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, 

To sit once more within his lonely hall. 

And miss the wonted number of my knights. 

And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 

As in the golden days before thy sin. 

For which of us, who might be left, could speak 

Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? 

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 

Thy shadow still w^ould glide from room to room, 

And I should evermore be vext with thee 

In hanging robe or vacant ornament. 

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 

For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy lord. 

Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. 

I am not made of so slight elements. 

Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. 

I hold that man the worst of public foes 

Who either for his own or children's sake, 

To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife 

Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house; 

For being thro' his cowardice allow' d 

Her station, taken everywhere for pure. 

She like a new disease, unknown to men. 

Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd. 

Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps 

The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse 

With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. 

Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns! 

[ 224 ] 



GUINEVERE 

Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of Hght^ 
The mockery of my people, and their bane.' 

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again: 

^Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head. 
My pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here), is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee. 
Made my tears burn — is also past— in part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved.? 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form. 
And beauty such as never woman wore. 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine. 

But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's. 
I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh, 
[ 225 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine own flesh. 

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries 

'^I loathe thee:" yet not less, O Guinevere, 

For I was ever virgin save for thee. 

My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life 

So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 

Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 

Hereafter in that world where all are pure 

We two may meet before high God, and thou 

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 

I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. 

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow: 

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts 

Far down to that great battle in the west. 

Where I must strike against the man they call 

My sister's son — no kin of mine, who leagues 

With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights. 

Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet myself 

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; 

But hither shall I never come again. 

Never lie by thy side; see thee no more — 

Farewell!' 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck. 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. 

[ 226 ] 



GUINEVERE 

Then^ listening till those armed steps were gone. 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found 
The casement: ^peradventure/ so she thought, 
'If I might see his face, and not be seen.' 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! 
And near him the sad nuns with each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was lower' d. 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. 
Which then was as an angel's, but she saw. 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights. 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and more 
The moony vapour rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud 
'O Arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly. 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff 
Fails in mid-air, but gathering at the base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance: 

' Gone — my lord 1 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain! 
And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
[ 227 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Farewell? I should have answer'd his farewell. 

His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, 

My own true lord! how dare I call him mine? 

The shadow of another cleaves to me. 

And makes me one pollution: he, the King, 

Call'd me polluted: shall I kill myself? 

What help in that? I cannot kill my sin. 

If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ; 

No, nor by living can I live it down. 

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months. 

The months will add themselves and make the years. 

The years will roll into the centuries. 

And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 

I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 

Let the world be ; that is but of the world. 

What else? what hope? I think there was a hope. 

Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope; 

His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks. 

For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 

And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven 

My wickedness to him, and left me hope 

That in mine own heart I can live down sin 

And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 

Before high God. Ah, great and gentle lord. 

Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 

Among his warring senses, to thy knights — 

To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took 

Full easily all impressions from below. 

Would not look up, or half-despised the height 

To which I would not or I could not climb — 

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air 

[ 228 ] 



GUINEVERE 

That pure severity of perfect light — 
I yearn'd for warmth and colour which I found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art. 
Thou art the highest and most human too. 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Battle? none: 
Myself must tell him in that purer life. 
But now it were too daring. Ah my God, 
What might I not have made of thy fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest: 
It surely was my profit had I known: 
It would have been my pleasure had I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we see it. 
Not Lancelot, nor another.' 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes : she look'd and sajv 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, 
'Yea, little maid, for am / not forgiven?' 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these and said, 

'Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls. 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying "shame." 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me, 

[ 229 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you; 

Wear black and white, and be a nun like you. 

Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts; 

Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys. 

But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; 

Pray and be pray'd for; lie before your shrines; 

Do each low office of your holy house ; 

Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 

To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 

Who ransom' d us, and haler too than I ; 

And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; 

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 

The sombre close of that voluptuous day. 

Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.' 

She said: they took her to themselves; and she 
Still hoping, fearing, 4s it yet too late?' 
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in her. 
And likewise for the high rank she had borne, 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived 
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is peace. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord, 
[ 230 ] 



MORTE D ARTHUR 

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere upHfted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
*The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was niy pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known: 
[231 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

But now delay not: take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
^It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.' 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 
[ 232 ] 



MORTE D ARTHUR 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
'Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 
'Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem' d 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere." 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud, 

'And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done ? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, 
[ 233 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 

Were it well to obey, then, if a king demand 

An act unprofitable, against himself? 

The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 

What record, or what relic of my lord 

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 

And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept. 

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 

Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honour and much fame were lost.* 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
^What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
' I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 
^Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 

[ 234 ] 



MORTE D ARTHUR 

Laid widow' d of the power in his eye 

That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 

For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 

In whom should meet the offices of all. 

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl' d in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excahbur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen.^' 

[ 235 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
^Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die_, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
'My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.* 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not words; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 'Quick, quick! 
[ 236 ] 



MORTE D ARTHUR 

I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. 

Larger than human on the frozen hills. 

He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 

Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. 

Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 

And barren chasms, and all to left and right 

The bare black cliff clang' d round him, as he based 

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 

Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake. 

And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them 

rose 
A cry that shiver' d to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, ^ Place me in the barge,' 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
[ 237 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colourless, and like the wither' d moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his 

lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
^Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myiTh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' 
[ 238 ] 



MORTE D ARTHUR 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 
^The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within Himself make pure! but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend.'' 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
[ 239 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM EPIC POEMS 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn. 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 



[ 240 ] 



IV 
PERSONAL AND PHILOSOPHIC POEMS 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 



THE POET 

The poet in a golden clime was born. 

With golden stars above; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn. 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill. 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will. 
An open scroll. 

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame: 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And wing'd with flame. 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue. 

And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower. 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 

Where'er they fell, behold, 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold, 

[ 243 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

And bravely fumish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran. 

And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man. 
Making earth wonder, 
[ 244 ] 



THE POETS SONG 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword 

Of wrath her right arm whirl' d. 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S SONG 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose. 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat. 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet. 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud. 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly. 

The snake slipt under a spray. 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak. 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought,^ I have sung many songs. 

But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away.' 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM 

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 
(For you will understand it) of a soul, 
A sinful soul possess' d of many gifts, 
[ 245 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 

That did love Beauty only (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind). 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters 

That dote upon each other, friends to man. 

Living together under the same roof. 

And never can be sunder'd without tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie. 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 

Was common clay ta'en from the common earth 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house. 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, ^O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well.' 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish' d brass 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
[246 ] 



THE PALACE OF ART 

My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And ^ While the world runs round and round/ I said, 

'Reign thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring.' 

To which my soul made answer readily: 

'Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me. 
So royal -rich and wide.' 



Four courts I made. East, West and South and North, 

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands. 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one swell 
Across the mountain stream' d below 

[247 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, 'And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun. 
And that sweet incense rise?' 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd. 

And, while day sank or mounted higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd. 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced. 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was. 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom. 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood. 
All various, each a perfect whole 
[ 248 ] 



THE PALACE OF ART 

From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue. 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn_, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand. 

And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land. 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low. 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil. 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black with stones and slags, 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags. 
And highest, snow and fire. 
[ 249 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

And one, an English home — gray twiUght pour'd 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, w^as there 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch -work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall' d city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 

In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 

And watch'd by weeping queens. 
[ 250 ] 



THE PALACE OF ART 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear. 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail' d. 

And many a tract of palm and rice. 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd. 
From off her shoulder backward borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down. 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone: but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there. 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, 

Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

[ 251 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp' d his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast. 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift. 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man declined. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod: and those great bells 
Began to chime. She took her throne: 
[ 252 ] 



THE PALACE OF ART 

She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And tln-o' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame 

Two godHke faces gazed below; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon' d fair 
In diverse raiment strange: 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, 

Flush'd in her temples and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro* the ribbed stone; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 

Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth. 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: ^All these are mine. 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
'Tis one to me.' She — when young night divine 
Crown' d dying day with stars, 
[ 253 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollow' d moons of gems. 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, 

' I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide. 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

'O all things fair to sate my various eyes! 

shapes and hues that please me well! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell! 

'O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 

What time I watch the darkening droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

'In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin. 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep.' 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate 

And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers by right of fuU-accomplish'd Fate ; 
And at the last she said: 

'I take possession of man's mind and deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 
[ 254 ] 



THE PALACE OF ART 

I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all.' 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone. 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth. 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years 

She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell. 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro ' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she tum'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought. 

Wrote, ^Mene, mene,' and divided quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

' What ! is not this my place of strength,' she said, 
'My spacious mansion built for me, 

[ 255 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory?* 

But in dark comers of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood. 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades, enclosing hearts of flame. 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came. 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand. 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
RoU'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 

'No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
'No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world: 
One deep, deep silence all!' 

[ 256 ] 



THE PALACE OF ART 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears. 
And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
And all alone in crime: 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall. 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound 

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, ' I have found 
A new land, but I die.' 

She howl'd aloud, ^I am on fire within. 
There comes no murmur of reply. 
[ 257 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

What is it that will take away my sin. 
And save me lest I die?' 

So when four years were wholly finished. 

She threw her royal robes away. 
'Make me a cottage in the vale/ she said, 
'Where I may mourn and pray. 

'Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built: 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt.' 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 

I 

O YOUNG Mariner, 
You from the haven 
Under the sea-cliff. 
You that are watching 
The gray Magician 
With eyes of wonder, 
/ am Merlin, 
And / am dying, 
/ am Merlin 
Who follow The Gleam. 

II 
Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping, and woke me 

[ 258 ] 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 

And learn'd me Magic! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley. 
In early summers. 
Over the mountain. 
On human faces, 
And all around me. 
Moving to melody. 
Floated The Gleam. 

Ill 
Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it, 
A barbarous people. 
Blind to the magic. 
And deaf to the melody. 
Snarl' d at and cursed me. 
A demon vext me. 
The light retreated, 
The landskip darken' d. 
The melody deaden'd. 
The Master w^hisper'd, 
'Follow The Gleam.' 

IV 

Then to the melody. 
Over a wilderness 
Gliding, and glancing at 
Elf of the woodland. 
Gnome of the cavern. 
Griffin and Giant, 
And dancing of Fairies 
[ 259 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

In desolate hollows. 

And wraiths of the mountain. 

And rolling of dragons 

By warble of water, 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents, 

Flitted The Gleam. 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level. 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river. 

Silvery willow. 

Pasture and plowland. 

Innocent maidens. 

Garrulous children. 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner. 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labour, 

Slided The Gleam — 

VI 

Then, with a melody 
Stronger and statelier. 
Led me at length 
To the city and palace 
Of Arthur the king; 
Touch' d at the golden 
Cross of the churches, 
[ 260 ] 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 

Flash' d on the Tournament, 
Flicker' d and bicker' d 
From helmet to helmet. 
And last on the forehead 
Of Arthur the blameless 
Rested The Gleam. 

VII 

Clouds and darkness 

Closed upon Camelot; 

Arthur had vanish'd 

I knew not whither, 

The king who loved me. 

And cannot die; 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry glimmer 

On icy fallow 

And faded forest. 

Drew to the valley 

Named of the shadow. 

And slowly brightening 

Out of the glimmer. 

And slowly moving again to a melody 

Yearningly tender. 

Fell on the shadow. 

No longer a shadow. 

But clothed with The Gleam. 

VIII 

And broader and brighter 
The Gleam flying onward, 
[ 261 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

Wed to the melody. 

Sang thro' the world ; 

And slower and fainter, 

Old and weary. 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city, 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden. 

The mortal hillock. 

Would break into blossom; 

And so to the land's 

Last limit I came 

And can no longer. 

But die rejoicing. 

For thro' the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 

Who taught me in childhood, 

There on the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 

IX 

Not of the sunlight. 
Not of the moonlight. 
Not of the starlight! 
O young Mariner, 
Down to the haven, 
Call your companions. 
Launch your vessel, 
[ 262 ] 



*FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE' 

And crowd your canvas, 
And, ere it vanishes 
Over the margin. 
After it, follow it. 
Follow The Gleam. 



'PRATER AVE ATQUE VALE' 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row! 
So they row'd, and there we landed — ^O venusta 

Sirmio ! ' 
There to me thro' all the groves of olive in the summer 

glow. 
There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple 

flowers grow, 
Came that 'Ave atque Vale' of the Poet's hopeless 

woe, 
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred years 

ago. 

* Prater Ave atque Vale,' — as we wander'd to and 
fro. 

Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake be- 
low. 

Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio! 

TO VIRGIL 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE MANTUANS FOR 
THE NINETEENTH CENTENARY OF VIRGIl's DEATH 

I 

Roman Virgil, thou that singest 

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, 
[ 263 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, 

wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre; 

II 
Landscape-lover, lord of language 

more than he that sang the Works and Days, 
All the chosen coin of fancy 

flashing out from many a golden phrase; 

III 
Thou that singest wheat and woodland, 

tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd; 
All the charm of all the Muses 

often flowering in a lonely word; 

IV 

Poet of the happy Tityrus 

piping underneath his beechen bowers; 
Poet of the poet-satyr 

whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers ; 

V 

Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 

in the blissful years again to be. 
Summers of the snakeless meadow, 

unlaborious earth and oarless sea; 

VI 

Thou that seest Universal 

Nature moved by Universal Mind; 
Thou majestic in thy sadness 

at the doubtful doom of human kind ; 

[ 264 ] 



MILTON 

VII 

Light among the vanish' d ages ; 

star that gildest yet this phantom shore; 
Golden branch amid the shadows, 

kings and realms that pass to rise no more; 

VIII 

Now thy Forum roars no longer, 

fallen every purple Caesar's dome — 

Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 

sound for ever of Imperial Rome — 

IX 

Now the Rome of slaves hath perish' d, 

and the Rome of freemen holds her place, 

I, from out the Northern Island 

sunder'd once from all the human race, 

X 

I salute thee, Mantovano, 

I that loved thee since my day began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure 

ever moulded by the lips of man. 

MILTON 

ALCAICS 

O mighty-mouth' D inventor of harmonies, 
O skill' d to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
[ 265 ] 



OF THE POET AND HIS ART 

Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries. 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean. 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle. 
And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



OF PATRIOTISM 

«»0F OLD SAT FREEDOM ON 
THE HEIGHTS" 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 

The thunders breaking at her feet: 

Above her shook the starry lights: 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men reveal' d 
The fullness of her face — 
[ 266 ] 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA 

Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle-altar gazing down. 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks. 
And, King-like, wears the crown: 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 

Make bright our days and light our dreams. 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes! 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782 

O THOU, that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea. 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrench'd their rights from thee! 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 
Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, 
And in thy spirit with thee fought — 
Who sprang from English blood! 

But Thou rejoice with liberal joy. 

Lift up thy rocky face, 
And shatter, when the storms are black, 

[ 267 ] 



OF PATRIOTISM 

In many a streaming torrent back. 
The seas that shock thy base! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume. 
Thy work is thine — The single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden smote 

Will vibrate to the doom. 



TO THE QUEEN 

Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter d nothing base; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modem rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 
And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 

[ 268 1 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 

In vacant chambers, I could trust 
Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day! 

May children of our children say, 
'She wrought her people lasting good; 

'Her court was pure; her life serene; 

God gave her peace; her land reposed; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 

'And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

'By shaping some august decree. 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will. 

And compass' d by the inviolate sea.' 
March, 1851 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
WELLINGTON 

Published in 1852 

I 
Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation. 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

[ 269 ] 



OF PATRIOTISM 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall. 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

III 

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow. 

As fits an universal woe. 

Let the long long procession go. 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow. 

And let the mournful martial music blow; 

The last great Englishman is low. 

IV 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood. 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute. 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
[ 270 ] 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 

Our greatest yet with least pretence. 

Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time, 

Rich in saving common-sense. 

And, as the greatest only are. 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 

The great World- victor's victor will be seen no more. 

V 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds: 

Bright let it be with its blazon' d deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

[ 271 ] 



OF PATllIOTISM 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame; 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name. 

Which he has worn so pure of blame. 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper d frame. 

O civic muse, to such a name. 

To such a name for ages long. 

To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 

And ever-echoing avenues of song. 

VI 

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest. 
With banner and with music, with soldier and with 

priest. 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest.^ 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 

[ 272 ] 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 

The greatest sailor since our world began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier comes; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea; 

His foes were thine; he kept us free; 

O give him welcome, this is he 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 

And worthy to be laid by thee; 

For this is England's greatest son. 

He that gain'd a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an English gun; 

This is he that far away 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 

And underneath another sun, 

Warring on a later day. 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labour'd rampart-lines, 

Where he greatly stood at bay. 

Whence he issued forth anew. 

And ever great and greater grew. 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms. 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines. 

Follow' d up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamour of men. 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

[ 273 ] 



OF PATRIOTISM 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down; 

A day of onsets of despair ! 

Dash'd on every rocky square 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 

Thro' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash' d a sudden jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there. 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine. 

If love of country move thee there at all. 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

[ 274] 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him. 

Eternal honour to his name. 



VII 

A people's voice! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget. 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming showers. 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole. 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march of mind. 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 
But M'ink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 

[ 275 ] 



OF PATRIOTISM 

In thunder, silent; yet remember all 

He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke; 

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour. 

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 

Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow 

Thro' either babbling world of high and low; 

Whose life was work, whose language rife 

With rugged maxims hewn from life; 

Who never spoke against a foe; 

Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 

All great self-seekers trampling on the right: 

Truth -teller was our England's Alfred named; 

Truth-lover was our English Duke; 

Whatever record leap to light 

He never shall be shamed. 



VIII 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne. 
Follow' d by the brave of other lands. 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honour shower' d all her stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great. 
But as he saves or sei'ves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story. 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 

[ 276 ] 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 

Into glossy purples, which outredden 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He, that ever following her commands. 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands. 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevail'd. 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he: his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind endure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land. 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure: 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory: 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

And when the long-illumined cities flame. 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him. 

Eternal honour to his name. 



IX 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in summers that we shall not see; 

[ 277 ] 



OF PATRIOTISM 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the Httle children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere ; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane: 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity. 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will; 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours. 

What know we greater than the soul? 

[ 278 ] 



THE VISION OF SIN 

" On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears; 
The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that men can weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 



186g 



/ 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 



THE VISION OF SIN 

I 

I HAD a vision when the night was late: 
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, 
But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
And from the palace came a child of sin. 
And took him by the curls, and led him in, 
Where sat a company with heated eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain should arise: 
[ 279 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes. 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of 
grapes. 

II 

Then methought I heard a mellow sound. 
Gathering up from all the lower ground; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles: they that heard it sigh'd. 
Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale. 
Swung themselves, and in low tones replied; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and died; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm' d in orbs of song, a growing gale; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they waited. 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes. 
Flung the torrent rainbow round: 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in hue. 
Caught each other with wild grimaces. 
Half-invisible to the view. 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
[ 280 ] 



THE VISION OF SIN 

To the melody, till they flew. 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew: 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony. 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 

Ill 

And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract. 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn: 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 
Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold. 
From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, 
A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold. 
Came floating on for many a month and year. 
Unheeded: and I thought I would have spoken. 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late: 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, 
When that cold vapour touch'd the palace gate. 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth 'd man as lean as death. 
Who slowly rode across a wither d heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said: 

IV 

'Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! 
Here is custom come your way; 
[ 281 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Take my brute^ and lead him in. 
Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

'Bitter barmaid, waning fast! 

See that sheets are on my bed; 
What! the flower of life is past: 

It is long before you wed. 

'Slip-shod w^aiter, lank and sour. 
At the Dragon on the heath! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

'I am old, but let me drink; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

'Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 
When a blanket wraps the day. 

When the rotten woodland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp' d in clay. 

'Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee: 

What care I for any name? 
What for order or degree? 

'Let me screw thee up a peg: 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine: 

Callest thou that thing a leg? 

Which is thinnest? thine or mine? 
[ 282 ] 



THE VISION OF SIN 

'Thou shalt not be saved by works: 

Thou hast been a sinner too: 
Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 

Empty scarecrows, I and you! 

'Fill the cup, and fill the can: 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is born. 

'We are men of ruin'd blood; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud. 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

'Name and fame! to fly sublime 

Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, 
Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

'Friendship! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 

'Virtue! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well. 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 



O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 
[ 283 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbour's wife. 

'Fill the cup, and fill the can: 
Have a rouse before the mom: 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

'Drink, and let the parties rave: 
They are fill'd with idle spleen; 

Rising, falling, like a wave. 

For they know not what they mean. 

'He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power; 

And the tyi'ant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

'Fill the can, and fill the cup: 
All the -windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up. 
And is lightly laid again. 

'Greet her with applausive breath. 
Freedom, gaily doth she tread; 

In her right a civic wi-eath. 
In her left a human head. 

'No, I love not what is new; 

She is of an ancient house: 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 
[ 284 ] 



THE VISION OF SIN 

'Let her go! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs. 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

'Drink to lofty hopes that cool 
Visions of a perfect State : 

Drink we, last, the public fool. 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

'Chant me now some wicked stave. 
Till thy drooping courage rise. 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

'Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; 

Set thy hoary fancies free; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savours well to thee and me. 

'Change, reverting to the years. 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears. 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

'Tell me tales of thy first love 
April hopes, the fools of chance; 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 

'Fill the can, and fill the cup: 
All the windy ways of men 
[ 285 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Are but dust that rises up. 
And is lightly laid again. 

'Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads: 

Welcome, fellow-citizens. 

Hollow hearts and empty heads! 

'You are bones, and what of that? 

Every face, however full. 
Padded round with flesh and fat. 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

'Death is king, and Vivat Rex! 

Tread a measure on the stones. 
Madam — if I know your sex. 

From the fashion of your bones. 

'No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip: 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

'Lo! God's likeness — the ground-plan — 
Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed; 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed! 

'Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death! 

[ 286 ] 



THE VISION OF SIN 

'Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near: 

What! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

'Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

'Fill the cup, and fill the can: 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn! 

Dregs of life, and lees of man: 
Yet we will not die forlorn.' 



The voice grew faint: there came a further change: 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range: 
Below were men and horses pierced with worms. 
And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross. 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. 
Then some one spake: 'Behold! it was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time/ 
Another said: 'The crime of sense became 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame.' 
And one: 'He had not wholly quench'd his power; 
A little grain of conscience made him sour.* 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, 'Is there any hope?' 
To which an answer peal'd from that high land, 
[ 287 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

But in a tongue no man could understand; 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

A THOUSAND summers ere the time of Christ 
From out his ancient city came a Seer 
Whom one that loved, and honour' d him, and yet 
Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but worn 
From wasteful living, foUow'd — in his hand 
A scroll of verse — till that old man before 
A cavern whence an affluent fountain pour'd 
From darkness into daylight, turn'd and spoke. 

This wealth of waters might but seem to draw 
From yon dark cave, but, son, the source is higher, 
Yon summit half-a-league in air — and higher. 
The cloud that hides it — higher still, the heavens 
Whereby the cloud was moulded, and w hereout 
The cloud descended. Force is from the heights. 
I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
To spend my one last year among the hills. 
What hast thou there ? Some deathsong for the Ghouls 
To make their banquet relish.'* let me read. 

''How far thro' all the bloom and brake 

That nightingale is heard! 
What power but the bird's could make 

This music in the bird.-* 
How summer-bright are yonder skies, 

And earth as fair in hue ! 
[ 288 ] 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

And yet what sign of aught that lies 

Behind the green and blue? 
But man to-day is fancy's fool 

As man hath ever been. 
The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule 

Were never heard or seen." 

If thou would' st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive 
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self. 
There, brooding by the central altar, thou 
May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice, 
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise. 
As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst not know; 
For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake 
That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there 
But never yet hath dipt into the abysm. 
The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, within 
The blue of sky and sea, the green of earth. 
And in the million-millionth of a grain 
Which cleft and cleft again for evermore, 
And ever vanishing, never vanishes. 
To me, my son, more mystic tlian myself. 
Or even than the Nameless is to me. 

And when thou sendest thy free soul thro' heaven, 
Nor understandest bound nor boundlessness. 
Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred names. 

And if the Nameless should withdraw from all 
Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world 
Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark. 

"And since — from when this earth began — 
The Nameless never came 
[ 289 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Among usj never spake with man. 
And never named the Name" — 

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O my son. 
Nor canst thou prove the world thou movest in, 
Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone. 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone. 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one: 
Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no 
Nor yet that thou art mortal — nay, my son. 
Thou canst not prove that I, who speak with thee, 
Am not thyself in converse with thyself. 
For nothing worthy proving can be proven. 
Nor yet disproven : wherefore thou be wise. 
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, 
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith ! 
She reels not in the storm of warring words, 
She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No,' 
She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the Worst, 
She feels the Sun is hid but for a night. 
She spies the summer thro' the winter bud. 
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls. 
She hears the lark within the songless egg, 
She finds the fountain where they wail'd 'Mirage'! 

"What Power? aught akin to Mind, 

The mind in me and you ? 
Or power as of the Gods gone blind 

Who see not what they do?" 

But some in yonder city hold, my son, 
That none but Gods could build this house of ours, 
[ 290 ] 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

So beautiful, vast, various, so beyond 

All work of man, yet, like all work of man, 

A beauty with defect till That which knows, 

And is not known, but felt thro' what we feel 
Within ourselves is highest, shall descend 
On this half-deed, and shape it at the last 
According to the Highest in the Highest. 

"What Power but the Years that make 

And break the vase of clay. 
And stir the. sleeping earth, and wake 

The bloom that fades away? 
What rulers but the Days and Hours 

That cancel weal with woe. 
And wind the front of youth with flowers, 

And cap our age with snow?" 

The days and hours are ever glancing by. 
And seem to flicker past thro' sun and shade. 
Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, or Pain; 
But with the Nameless is nor Day nor Hour; 
Tho' we, thin minds, who creep from thought to 

thought. 
Break into 'Thens' and ^Whens' the Eternal Now: 
This double seeming of the single world! — 
My words are like the babblings in a dream 
Of nightmare, when the babblings break the dream. 
But thou be wise in this dream-world of ours. 
Nor take thy dial for thy deity. 
But make the passing shadow serve thy will. 

[ 291 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

"The years that made the stripUng wise 

Undo their work again. 
And leave him, bhnd of heart and eyes. 

The last and least of men; 
Who clings to earth, and once would dare 

Hell-heat or Arctic cold. 
And now one breath of cooler air 

Would loose him from his hold; 
His winter chills him to the root. 

He withers marrow and mind; 
The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit 

Is jutting thro' the rind; 
The tiger spasms tear his chest. 

The palsy wags his head; 
The wife, the sons, who love him best 

Would fain that he were dead; 
The griefs by which he once was wrung 

Were never worth the while" — 

Who knows? or whether this earth-narrow life 
Be yet but yolk, and forming in the shell? 

"The shaft of scorn that once had stung 
But wakes a dotard smile." 

The placid gleam of sunset after storm! 

"The statesman's brain that sway'd the past 

Is feebler than his knees; 
The passive sailor wrecks at last 

In ever-silent seas ; 
The warrior hath forgot his arms, 
[ 292 ] 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

The Learned all his lore; 
The changing market frets or charms 

The merchant's hope no more; 
The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain. 

And now is lost in cloud; 
The plowman passes, bent with pain, 

To mix with what he plow'd; 
The poet whom his Age would quote 

As heir of endless fame — 
He knows not ev'n the book he wrote, 

Not even his own name. 
For man has overlived his day. 

And, darkening in the light. 
Scarce feels the senses break away 

To mix with ancient Night." 

The shell must break before the bird can fly. 

"The years that when my Youth began 

Had set the lily and rose 
By all my ways where'er they ran. 

Have ended mortal foes; 
My rose of love for ever gone, 

My lily of truth and trust — 
They made her lily and rose in one, 

And changed her into dust. 
O rosetree planted in my grief. 

And growing, on her tomb. 
Her dust is greening in your leaf. 

Her blood is in your bloom. 
O slender lily waving there. 

And laughing back the light, 
[ 293 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

In vain you tell me ^ Earth is fair' 
When all is dark as night." 

My son, the world is dark with griefs and graves, 
So dark that men cry out against the Heavens. 
Who knows but that the darkness is in man? 
The doors of Night may be the gates of Light; 
For wert thou born or blind or deaf, and then 
Suddenly heal'd, how would'st thou glory in all 
The splendours and the voices of the world! 
And we, the poor earth's dying race, and yet 
No phantoms, watching from a phantom shore 
Await the last and largest sense to make 
The phantom walls of this illusion fade. 
And show us that the world is wholly fair. 

''But vain the tears for darken'd years 

As laughter over wine. 
And vain the laughter as the tears, 

O brother, mine or thine. 
For all that laugh, and all that weep, 

And all that breathe are one 
Slight ripple on the boundless deep 

That moves, and all is gone." 

But that one ripple on the boundless deep 
Feels that the deep is boundless, and itself 
For ever changing form, but evermore 
One with the boundless motion of the deep. 

"Yet wine and laughter friends! and set 
The lamps alight, and call 
[ 294 ] 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

For golden music, and forget 
The darkness of the pall." 

If utter darkness closed the day, my son- 



But earth's dark forehead flings athwart the heavens 

Her shadow crown'd with stars — and yonder — out 

To northward — some that never set, but pass 

From sight and night to lose themselves in day. 

I hate the black negation of the bier. 

And wish the dead, as happier than ourselves 

And higher, having climb'd one step beyond 

Our village miseries, might be borne in white 

To burial or to burning, hymn'd from hence 

With songs in praise of death, and crown'd with flowers ! 

'^O worms and maggots of to-day 
Without their hope of wings!" 

But louder than thy rhyme the silent Word 
Of that world-prophet in the heart of man. 

"Tho' some have gleams or so they say 
Of more than mortal things." 

To-day.'' but what of yesterday .^^ for oft 
On me, when boy, there came what then I call'd. 
Who knew no books and no philosophies. 
In my boy-phrase ^The Passion of the Past.' 
The first gray streak of earliest summer-dawn. 
The last long stripe of waning crimson gloom. 
As if the late and early were but one — 
A height, a broken grange, a grove, a flower 
[ 295 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Had murmurs 'Lost and gone and lost and gone!' 
A breath, a whisper — some divine farewell — 
Desolate sweetness — far and far away — 
What had he loved, what had he lost, the boy? 
I know not and I speak of what has been. 

And more, my son! for more than once when I 
Sat all alone, revolving in myself 
The word that is the symbol of myself. 
The mortal limit of the Self was loosed. 
And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 
Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, the limbs 
Were strange not mine — and yet no shade of doubt, 
But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self 
The gain of such large life as match' d with ours 
Were Sun to spark — unshadowable in words. 
Themselves but shadows of a shadow-world. 

''And idle gleams will come and go, 
But still the clouds remain;" 

The clouds themselves are children of the Sun. 

''And Night and Shadow rule below 
When only Day should reign." 

And Day and Night are children of the Sun, 
And idle gleams to thee are light to me. 
Some say, the Light was father of the Night, 
And some, the Night was father of the Light, 
No night no day! — I touch thy world again — 
No ill no good! such counter-terms, my son. 
Are border-races, holding, each its own 
[ 296 ] 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 

By endless war; but night enough is there 
In yon dark city: get thee back: and since 
The key to that weird casket, which for thee 
But holds a skull, is neither thine nor mine, 
But in the hand of what is more than man. 
Or in man's hand when man is more than man, 
Let be thy wail and help thy fellow men. 
And make thy gold thy vassal not thy king, 
And fling free alms into the beggar's bowl, 
And send the day into the darken'd heart; 
Nor list for guerdon in the voice of men, 
A dying echo from a falling wall; 
Nor care — for Hunger hath the Evil eye — ■ 
To vex the noon with fiery gems, or fold 
Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous looms ; 
Nor roll thy viands on a luscious tongue. 
Nor drown thyself with flies in honied wine; 
Nor thou be rageful, like a handled bee. 
And lose thy life by usage of thy sting ; 
Nor harm an adder thro' the lust for harm. 
Nor make a snail's horn shrink for wantonness; 
And more — think well! Do-well will follow thought, 
And in the fatal sequence of this world 
An evil thought may soil thy children's blood; 
But curb the beast would cast thee in the mire. 
And leave the hot swamp of voluptuousness 
A cloud between the Nameless and thyself. 
And lay thine uphill shoulder to the wheel. 
And climb the Mount of Blessing, whence, if thou 
Look higher, then — perchance — thou mayest — be- 
yond 

[ 297 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

A hundred ever-rising mountain lines. 
And past the range of Night and Shadow — see 
The high-heaven dawn of more than mortal day 
Strike on the Mount of Vision ! 

So, farewell. 

*'FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL'* 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and 

the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? 

Is not the Vision He.'' tho' He be not that which He 

seems .^ 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live 

in dreams.'' 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb. 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from 
Him.? 

Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why; 
For is He not all but that which has power to feel ^I 

am I'? 

[ 298 ] 



WILL 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy 

doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour 

and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with 

Spirit can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands 

and feet. 

God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice. 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent 
in a pool; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man 

cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it 

not He? 

WILL 



O WELL for him whose will is strong! 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: 
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock. 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound. 
Who seems a promontory of rock. 
That, compass' d round with turbulent sound, 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 
[ 299 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

II 
But ill for him who, bettering not with time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will, 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime. 
Or seeming-genial venial fault. 
Recurring and suggesting still ! 
He seems as one whose footsteps halt. 
Toiling in immeasurable sand, 
And o'er a weary sultry land. 
Far beneath a blazing vault. 
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill. 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 

WAGES 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an end- 
less sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the 
wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she : 
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be 
dust. 
Would she have heart to endure for the life of the 
worm and the fly? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the 
just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer 
sky: 
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 
[ 300 ] 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 

I 
Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side. 

Leaving door and windows wide: 
Careless tenants they! 

II 
All within is dark as night: 
In the windows is no light; 
And no murmur at the door. 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Ill 

Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 

IV 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth. 
And shall fall again to ground. 

v 
Come away: for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with us! 
[301 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK" 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 

All along the valley, stream that flashest white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night. 
All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 
I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 
All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day. 
The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed. 
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, 
[ 302 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, 
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 



SELECTIONS FROM 
IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 
PROLOGUE 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute; 

Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 

Thou madest man, he knows not why. 
He thinks he was not made to die; 

And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou: 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be: 
[ 303 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

They are but broken lights of thee. 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith: we cannot know; 

For knowledge is of things we see; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness: let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more. 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before. 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 

We mock thee when we do not fear: 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; 

What seem'd my worth since I began; 

For merit lives from man to man. 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed. 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 
[ 304 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 



I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown' d, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss: 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. 

To dance with death, to beat the ground. 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of Love, and boast, 
'Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn/ 

VII 

Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street. 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 
[ 305 ] 



OF THE LIBE OF THE SPIRIT 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again, 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 

IX 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain; a favourable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror' d mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now. 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son. 

More than my brothers are to me. 



[ 306 ] 



I! 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

XI 

Calm is the morn without a sound, 

Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 

And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground: 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold. 

And on these dews that drench the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold: 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers. 
And crowded farms and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main: 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 

These leaves that redden to the fall; 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest. 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

XIX 

The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken' d heart that beat no more ; 

They laid him by the pleasant shore. 
And in the hearing of the wave. 
[ 307] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

There twice a day the Severn fills; 
The salt sea-water passes by. 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along. 

And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 

Is vocal in its wooded walls; 

My deeper anguish also falls, 
And I can speak a little then. 

XXI 

I sing to him that rests below. 

And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 

And sometimes harshly will he speak: 
'This fellow would make weakness weak. 

And melt the waxen hearts of men.' 

Another answers, 'Let him be. 

He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy.' 

A third is wroth: 'Is this an hour 

For private sorrow's barren song, 
[ 308 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

When more and more the people throng 
The chairs and thrones of civil power? 

'A time to sicken and to swoon. 

When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon?' 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing: 

Ye never knew the sacred dust: 
I do but sing because I must. 

And pipe but as the linnets sing: 

And one is glad; her note is gay. 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad; her note is changed. 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 

XXIII 
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut. 
Or breaking into song by fits. 
Alone, alone, to where he sits. 
The Shadow cloak' d from head to foot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came. 

Or on to where the pathway leads; 

And crying, How changed from where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan : 
[ 309 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

When each by turns was guide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good. 

And all was good that Time could bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 

XXVII 

I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage. 

The linnet born within the cage. 
That never knew the summer woods; 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 

The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall; 
I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 
[ 310 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

'T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII 

The time draws near the birth of Christ: 
The moon is hid; the night is still; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets rounds 

From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Sw ell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound: 

Each voice four changes on the wind. 
That now dilate, and now decrease. 
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again: 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 

For they controll'd me when a boy; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy. 

The merry merry bells of Yule. 

XXXI 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 

And home to Mary's house return' d, 

[ 311 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Was this demanded — if he yeam'd 
To hear her weeping by his grave? 

'Where wert thou, brother, those four days?* 
There hves no record of reply. 
Which telUng what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbours met. 

The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd; 

He told it not; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 

Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits. 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 

Borne down by gladness so complete. 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 
[ 312 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers. 
Whose loves in higher love endure; 
What souls possess themselves so pure. 

Or is there blessedness like theirs? 



XXXIII 

O thou that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reaeh'd a purer air. 
Whose faith has centre everywhere. 

Nor cares to fix itself to form. 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays. 
Her early Heaven, her happy views; 
Nor thou with shadow' d hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro* form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good: 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within. 
Thou fail not in a world of sin. 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 

XXXVI 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join. 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame. 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

[ 313 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers. 

Where truth in closest words shall fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf. 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 

XLV 

The baby new to earth and sky. 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast. 

Has never thought that ^this is I:' 

But as he grows he gathers much. 

And learns the use of 'I,' and *^me,' 
And finds ^I am not what I see. 

And other than the things I touch.' 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may begin. 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath. 

Which else were fruitless of their due, 
[ 314 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

Had man to learn himself anew 
Beyond the second birth of Death. 

XLVII 

That each, who seems a separate whole. 
Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet: 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside; 

And I shall know him when we meet: 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 

Enjoying each the other's good: 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height. 
Before the spirits fade away. 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

'Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.* 



Be near me when my light is low. 

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick 
And tingle; and the heart is sick. 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 

Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust; 

[ 315 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

And Time, a maniac scattering dust. 
And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry. 

And men the flies of latter spring. 
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away. 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 

LIV 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd. 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain; 

That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 
[ 316 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night: 
An infant crying for the light: 

And with no language but a cry. 



LV 

The wish, that of the living whole 

No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 

That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope, 

[ 317 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

LXX 

I cannot see the features right. 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; 

And crowds that stream from yawning doors. 
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive ; 
Dark bulks that tumble half alive. 

And lazy lengths on boundless shores; 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll. 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXXIV 

As sometimes in a dead man's face. 

To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race: 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 

I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below. 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 
[ 318 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid. 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



LXXVIII 

Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth. 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost. 
No wing of wind the region swept. 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind. 

Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing grace. 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 

No single tear, no mark of pain: 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? 

O grief, can grief be changed to less? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No — mixt with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with long use her tears are dry. 

[ 319 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

LXXXII 

I wage not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and face ; 

No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him, can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on. 

From state to state the spirit walks; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my heart: 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXIII 
Dip down upon the northern shore, 

O sweet new-year delaying long; 

Thou doest expectant nature wrong; 
Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons. 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 
[ 320 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew. 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

LXXXV 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have loved at all — 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief. 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 

Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd; 
And whether love for him have drain'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

x\nd loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept. 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
[ 321 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

That in Vienna's fatal walls 
God's finger touch' d him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state. 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 

And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain' d, whose hopes were dim, 

Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 

O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 
[ 322 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might express 
All-compreh ensi ve tenderness. 

All-subtilising intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe. 

That loved to handle spiritual strife. 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life. 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

I woo your love: I count it crime 

To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, the divided half of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears: 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this: 

But Summer on the steaming floods. 

And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, 

[ 323 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

And Autumn, with a noise of rooks. 
That gather in the waning woods. 

And every pulse of wind and wave 

Recalls, in change of light or gloom. 
My old affection of the tomb. 

And my prime passion in the grave: 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
'Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

*I watch thee from the quiet shore; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more.' 

And I, 'Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free.'* 
How is it.^* Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain?' 

And lightly does the whisper fall; 

'Tis hard for thee to fathom this; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss. 
And that serene result of all.' 

So hold I commerce with the dead; 

Or so methinks the dead would say; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

[ 324 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

Now looking to some settled ^nd. 

That these things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend; 

If not so fresh, with love as tme, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 

The promise of the golden hours? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers. 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone. 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear. 
The primrose of the later year. 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
[ 325 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Of evening .over brake and bloom 
And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood. 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odour streaming far. 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper ^ Peace.' 

LXXXVIII 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet. 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy: 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 
[ 326 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

XC 

He tasted love with half his mind. 

Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 

Were closed with wail, resume their life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise: 

'T was well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear. 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here. 

To count their memories half divine; 

But if they came who past away. 

Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their lands. 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these. 

Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me: 

Whatever change the years have wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 

[ 327 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

XCVI 

You say^ but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet-hearted, you, whose Hght-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not: one indeed I knew 

In many a subtle question versed. 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first. 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather' d strength. 
He would not make his judgment blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them: thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night. 
Which makes the darkness and the light. 

And dwells not in the light alone. 

But in the darkness and the cloud. 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 
[ 828 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

CIV 

The time draws near the birth of Christ; 

The moon is hid^ the night is still; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast. 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays. 
Nor landmark breathes of other days. 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 

CVI 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 
[ 329 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes. 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land. 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CXI 

The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all. 
To him who grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 

His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
[ 330 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

Will let his coltish nature break 
At seasons thro' the gilded pale: 

For who can always act? but he, 

To whom a thousand memories call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be. 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 
Or villain fancy fleeting by. 
Drew in the expression of an eye. 

Where God and Nature met in light; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

cxv 

Now fades the last long streak of snow. 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drown' d in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 
[ 331 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the vale. 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea; 

Where now the seamew pipes^ or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood; that live their lives 

From land to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet. 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

CXVIII 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant labouring in his youth; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say. 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began. 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms. 

Till at the last arose the man; 

Who throve and branch' d from clime to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 

[ 332 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

And of himself in higher place, 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more; 

Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom. 

And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter' d with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; 
Move upward, working out the beast. 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXIX 

Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn. 

And think of early days and thee. 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland. 

And bright the friendship of thine eye; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 
[ 333 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

CXX 

I trust I have not wasted breath: 

I think we are not wholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain. 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 

Not only cunning casts in clay: 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men. 

At least to me? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 

Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape. 

But I was horn to other things. 



CXXIII 

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes hast thou seen! 

There where the long street roars hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 

From form to form, and nothing stands; 
They melt like mist, the soUd lands. 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold it true; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 
[ 334 ] 



SELECTIONS FROM IN MEMORIAM 

CXXIV 

That which we dare invoke to bless; 

Our dearest faith; our ghasthest doubt; 

He, They, One, All; within, without; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess; 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye; 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun: 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 

I heard a voice, ^Believe no more' 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer' d, ^I have felt.' 

No, like a child in doubt and fear: 

But that blind clamour made me wise; 
Then was I as a child that cries. 

But, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

[ 385 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

CXXVI 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend. 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass' d by his faithful guard. 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 



cxxx 

Thy voice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters run; 

Thou standest in the rising sun. 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then? I cannot guess; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less: 

My love involves the love before; 

My love is vaster passion now; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 
[ 336 ] 



PREFATORY POEM TO MY BROTHER S SONNETS 

Far off thou art_, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



CXXXI 

O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock. 

Rise in the spiritual rock. 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure. 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer' d years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control. 

The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



PREFATORY POEM 
TO MY BROTHER'S SONNETS 

Midnight, June 30, 1879 

I 
Midnight — in no midsummer tune 
The breakers lash the shores: 
The cuckoo of a joyless June 
Is calling out of doors : 
[ 337 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

And thou hast vanish' d from thine own 
To that which looks Hke rest. 
True brother, only to be known 
By those who love thee best. 

II 
Midnight — and joyless June gone by. 
And from the deluged park 
The cuckoo of a worse July 
Is calling thro' the dark: 

But thou art silent underground. 
And o'er thee streams the rain. 
True poet, surely to be found 
When Truth is found again. 

Ill 
And, now to these unsummer'd skies 
The summer bird is still. 
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 
From out a phantom hill; 

And thro' this midnight breaks the sun 
Of sixty years away. 
The light of days when life begun. 
The days that seem to-day. 

When all my griefs were shared with thee. 
As all my hopes were thine — 
As all thou wert was one with me. 
May all thou art be mine ! 
[ 338 ] 



VASTNESS 



VASTNESS 

I 

Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many 

a vanish'd face. 
Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust 

of a vanish'd race. 

II 
Raving politics, never at rest — as this poor earth's 

pale history runs, — 
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a 

milUon million of suns? 



Ill 

Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, truthless vio- 
lence moum'd by the Wise, 

Thousands of voices drowning his own in a popular 
torrent of lies upon lies; 

IV 

Stately purposes, valour in battle, glorious annals of 

army and fleet. 
Death for the right cause, death for the wrong cause, 

trumpets of victory, groans of defeat ; 



Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, and Charity 

setting the martyr aflame ; 
Thraldom who walks with the banner of Freedom, and 

recks not to ruin a realm in her name. 
[ 339 ] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

VI 

Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom of 

doubts that darken the schools; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, foUow'd 

up by her vassal legion of fools; 

VII 

Trade flying over a thousand seas with her spice and 
her vintage, her silk and her corn; 

Desolate offing, sailorless harbours, famishing popu- 
lace, wharves forlorn; 

VIII 

Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise ; gloom of 

the evening, Life at a close; 
Pleasure who flaunts on her wide down-way with her 

flying robe and her poison' d rose; 

IX 

Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse of Pleasure, a 
worm which writhes all day, and at night 

Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, and stings 
him back to the curse of the light; 

X 

Wealth with his wines and his wedded harlots ; honest 

Poverty, bare to the bone; 
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty; Flattery gilding the 

rift in a throne ; 

[ 340 ] 



VASTNESS 

XI 

Fame blowing out from her golden trumpet a jubilant 

challenge to Time and to Fate; 
Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on all the 

laurel'd graves of the Great; 

XII 

Love for the maiden, crown'd with marriage, no re- 
grets for aught that has been. 

Household happiness, gracious children, debtless com- 
petence, golden mean; 

XIII 

National hatreds of whole generations, and pigmy 

spites of the village spire ; 
Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and vows 

that are snapt in a moment of fire; 

XIV 

He that has lived for the lust of the minute, and died 

in the doing it, flesh without mind ; 
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, till Self died 

out in the love of his kind: 



XV 

Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter, and all 

these old revolutions of earth ; 
All new-old revolutions of Empire — change of the tide 

— what is all of it worth? 
[341] 



OF THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT 

XVI 

What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, vary- 
ing voices of prayer ? 

All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is filthy 
with all that is fair? 

XVII 

What is it all, if we all of us end but in being our own 

corpse-coffins at last. 
Swallow' d in Vastness, lost in Silence, drown* d in the 

deeps of a meaningless Past? 

XVIII 

What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a mo- 
ment's anger of bees in their hive? — 

Peace, let it be! for I loved him, and love him for 
ever: the dead are not dead but alive. 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar. 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide ag moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

[342] 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 






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